


Green Means Go

by electricalgwen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Politics, Amnesia, Explosions, M/M, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the United States fragmented, the vigilante group known as the Ghosts became the unofficial power behind the Republic of Texas. After the deaths of almost everyone he cares about, the Ghosts are all Jared has left. </p>
<p>Four years later, Jared is on a routine mission when his world is turned upside down. Jensen’s alive, but has no memory of his former life, or the mission that (almost) got him killed. Old rivalries are resurfacing, and now Jared and Jensen are on the run from their own side. There’s a surprise awaiting them, a secret that could change the world – if only Jensen can remember the key.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


**_Prologue_ **

ComNet’s supposed to be _easy_ to use, damnit. It’s hard. Why is it so hard today?

Oh. Right.

She punches in the code again. Her fingers trip. Bad fingers. She shakes them out, sets her tongue firmly between her teeth and hits connect.

_There_ he is. She can feel her smile stretching her cheeks, pulling the corners of her mouth wide. “Hi!” She flops up against the side of the comscreen, twirling her hand in his direction. “I have to talk to you. Hi!”

“Jesus!” He leans in, his face spreading wider across the screen. She watches his chin move as he talks; the words wash past her and she has to think back through them. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m kinda… whoa,” she catches herself sliding down and hitches up her hip, propping herself against the wall of the public booth. “They can’t know I talked to you, okay? Don’t tell them I talked to you.”

“Are you hurt? Tell me where you are, we’ll get you out…”

She giggles. “Nothing hurts. Nothing at _all._ I can’t remember this conversation, is all. Okay?”

“Baby.” His face is sinking into hard lines, sharp planes and flat eyes; she doesn’t like that face, never liked it. “What did you do?”

She looks side to side, eyes wide, but there’s nobody there. “They’re getting set to reverse it. Government’s near to getting the reforms through.”

She glances behind her again; the street is empty.

“I told you before, right? Been building up again ever since the coup. They’re in real deep by now, and three weeks Thursday they’re gonna make their move.”

He starts to say something but the words are just background noise as she keeps talking. “The nephew, he’s the one they’re setting up for it. I got it all, I was in real close and I…”

She bites her lip. It doesn’t hurt like it should; she tries again. Huh. Still nothing.

“…I kinda fucked it up. Sorry. Too close.” She grimaces apologetically. “He knows it’s me. They can’t know I talked to you, okay? They’re real scared of Cali interfering.”

“They should be,” he says.

“Are you underwater?” she says, head lolling. “You sound…”

Her eyes don’t want to focus. Maybe she’s the one underwater.

Even with her distorted vision she can see the frantic movements in the screen. It looks like he’s banging his fist on it. “Stop it,” she mumbles. “You’ll fall out.”

“What the hell did he do to you?”

“Nothing yet,” she says.

Her arm is so heavy, her hand trailing up as though the air were molasses. She presses her palm against the screen, leans in, her forehead hot against the cool surface.

“Amnesty,” she whispers. “I took it right before I called. I won’t remember any of this.”

“Goddamnit!” his voice explodes from the speakers, “they are _not_ going to catch you! Get to the usual spot, I’ll have someone there in twenty or less…”

“I’ve got another way out,” she whispers. “I’ll run, but they’re pretty close. Don’t be mad. I had to tell you. Before they got me.”

She’s never seen him cry, he doesn’t cry, but his eyes are bright. Maybe he’s angry with her. “Don’t be mad,” she pleads again. “You know I had to tell you. Just in case. And this way, they’ll never know. You know?”

“…Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds funny, but she’s flooded with relief. He knows. “I know.”

“I’m gonna run now,” she assures him. “I can still run. I’m a good runner.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re the best.”

She beams. His face is blurred, this close up, but it’s a better face now. Softer. She likes this face.

“I like your face.”

“You’ll see it soon again, okay? But you have to go now.”

She looks down at her fingers. They’re blurry too for some reason; she wiggles them experimentally, but that makes it worse.

“I’ll disconnect, do the wipe from this end. Just go!”

She pulls herself up tall and gives him a wobbly salute.

_“Go!”_

The connection breaks. The screen flickers. Remote wipe. He’s good at this.

She’s good at running. One foot in front of the other, it’s all you have to do.

She backs out of the booth and starts down the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other. Not far now. She just has to…

 

 

  


**_Part One_ **

Everyone knows Jared’s dogs are the best.

Jared’s pretty fucking amazing, too. Still, there are several of the Ghosts who can give him a run for his money. This is good; they’re stretched thin lately. But when the order comes to get his ass down to San Antonio as of yesterday, Jared knows it’s because of the dogs. No other reason Jeff would send him instead of Aldis or Katie. Jeff knows Jared hasn’t set foot there in over four years.

He drives. Alone, he might have flown – he could easily get around airport security, even considering how ridiculously stringent it’s gotten these past few bad years – but the dogs have never learned to love planes and if time is of the essence, he can’t afford to wait for sedatives to wear off.

He does, however, park several blocks away to let them stretch their legs on the way to reporting in. They deserve a walk.

Sadie’s dancing a bit, letting out excess energy. She’s the younger, and sensitive beyond belief: so much so they call her a ‘corpse dog.’ She found President Stanton’s murdered aide three years ago, despite all the concrete they’d dumped on him, and even though it never made the official news, Jared knows that’s what ultimately brought down that government. He recognized Jeff’s hand behind the way things played out.

Harley’s trotting along more sedately. They’re both extremely well-trained and disciplined, but Jared’s had Harley longer, watched him grow into a mature and reliable dog. Really, it was as much Harley’s example as Jared’s patient training that brought Sadie along so well.

So it’s a real shock to Jared when Harley starts going completely insane as they pass the entrance to the local farmers’ market.

He frowns and tugs on the leash. It’s just for show, to keep up with local regulations; these dogs no more need leashes to control them than they need to be told how to sleep or eat. Harley insists, though, pulling on the leash and heading for the archway.

Jared follows, signaling Sadie to come too. Something’s up. Harley turns to the right, leading through the bustling aisles. Jared’s constantly apologizing to people as they pass; he takes up enough room by himself, never mind the dogs, especially with Harley pulling hard. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Harley stops.

“The _butcher?_ Harley, really?” Jared can’t believe it. Even Sadie looks puzzled.

But Harley doesn’t cast an eye at the slabs of beef and grass-fed lamb, just scents, and starts moving again, turning left at the next intersection.

Jared’s own senses are on high alert. He’s got no idea what’s caught Harley’s attention but the unexpected is pretty much always trouble, in his world.

They make brief pauses at a vegetable stand, then a stall selling fresh bread and pastries, and then they round a corner and Jared stops dead.

Harley is straining at the leash, a low whine escaping him. Jared has to exert all his considerable strength to haul him back round the corner, where he ducks down and talks quietly, urgently into his ear. “Good dog,” he soothes, scratching behind Harley’s ears. “That’s good, that’s good enough. You did it, boy. You’re done.”

The dog clearly wants to continue, reach his target. Jared continues petting him, repeating the same words, holding hard all the while to his leash. Sadie stands and watches them both curiously, tail occasionally thumping against Harley’s flank. Jared drops his head to Harley’s and rubs his face on the rough warm fur. The magnitude, the implications of what he’s just seen are starting to sink in. Even thinking the name feels like his brain is wading through taffy.

_Jensen._

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”

 

  


Dean juggles the groceries and slaps his right hand on the scanner panel by the back door. There’s a click as the magnetic lock releases; he shoulders the door open and makes his way to the kitchen. He deposits the bags on the large butcher block table and glances at the phone. The message light is blinking.

He hits play and starts unloading the bags.

“Hey, Dean. Fred’s asked for a quick meeting at four but you know what he’s like. I might be running a bit late for supper. Sorry, see you soon. Mwah.”

Danni’s boss is on the long-winded side. Dean got stuck next to him once at a company dinner. By the time coffee and dessert were served, Dean had inserted maybe three sentences into Fred’s interminable monologue. The arrangement suited them both: the meal was excellent and Dean was happy not to have to interrupt his eating to make pointless small talk or deal with potentially awkward questions about himself. Fred keeps telling Danni to bring him around again. Apparently Dean made a good impression. He guesses Fred doesn’t find many people who listen to him for long.

He drops the vegetables next to the sink and pulls a cutting board out of the cupboard. The beef needs to marinate for at least half an hour so it’s the priority. He looks at the knife rack, running his hand along the handles. His fingers close around one he doesn’t use often; it’s a little long, a little heavy for his taste. Usually.

Today, it fits his hand nicely.

He cuts the meat up deftly and spreads it in the pan. The marinade’s at the back of the fridge and as he leans in, digging for it, a shadow moves across his arm. He whirls around without thinking.

There’s a flash of color at the window. A red flycatcher is attacking the feeder Danni hung there. The kitchen is silent and empty apart from Dean. He looks at his hands in front of him. One is curled and raised, the other has flipped the knife into attack position.

How the fuck he even _knows_ it’s attack position, let alone how to assume it, is beyond him.

He hefts the knife in his hand, flips it from one to the other, and stares at his wavering reflection in the metal before turning back to the counter. He rinses the vegetables in cool water, and rubs an onion between his palms to flake off the dry outer layers. So easy to slough the outside, reveal the heart of it. Onions never make him cry.

Picking up the knife again, he slices the peppers into stir-fry strips, chops the onion, juliennes the carrots. The blade glints as it flashes down over and over. He watches it, tries to empty his mind and ignore the almost imperceptible tickle at the base of his skull. It’s been a long time since his mind has dredged up anything new. He knows from bitter experience it won’t come until it’s ready, and may not come at all. Chasing it, trying to stare at it head-on, is the surest way to make it disappear back down whatever rabbit hole it came from.

He’d spent two years trying on his own, before he met Danni, and had pretty much given up on it. He’d started again, though, for her sake. She’d taken him to therapists, hypnotists, psychologists. Nothing ever worked. The good ones just gave him killer migraines; the bad ones took it personally, accused him of being uncooperative, and gave him killer migraines. Dean had persisted, mainly because of the disappointment Danni tried unsuccessfully to mask after each failed attempt.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to know who he was, where he came from, what happened to him four years ago. But the wall was in his mind, not hers, and he could feel its permanence in a way she couldn’t understand. Once in a while, something would slip through: some small detail, some tantalizing hint of memory. He’d recognize a scent or the curve of a building’s shadow, hear fragments of lost conversations. Every time he tried to force it, though, it was an exercise in futility. Things come to him when they want to. He has been in this city before they moved here last year, he’s sure of that much.

One day, after yet another session, he and Danni were sitting at a sidewalk café, and he’d said, _I’m done with this. I’ve got a life, I’m living it, and I’m not looking back any more._ He hadn’t planned to say it, hadn’t even been thinking about it, but as he heard his own words he’d known it was right.

She’d looked at him in surprise, brow furrowing, but before she could speak he went on, _Can you live with that? I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Danni, but – I’m happy the way I am. Can you be happy with me?_

He’s always been grateful that she could. Not for the first, or even the hundredth, time, he thinks how lucky he was that Danni found him and took him on. She doesn’t mind the awkward gaps, the pauses in conversation, the lies he’s had to invent. She accepts that there are things she doesn’t know about him – because he doesn’t know them himself.

There’s nothing left to cut. He lays down the knife, flexing his hand. It had felt… natural there.

“Maybe I was a chef,” he says out loud to the kitchen, but it sounds hollow and he knows it isn’t true.

The kitchen’s too quiet. He flips on the radio and pulls out the largest frying pan. The news is on: more gridlock and traffic detours; another eco-warrior protest suppressed outside the legislature; the number of illegal border crossing attempts up this month.

A government employee has been missing since Tuesday. She was last seen leaving work on her lunch break and never returned. Foul play is suspected. Anyone…

The voice dies into silence. Dean stares over at the radio, at the tiny ‘off’ button he’d hit dead on with the wooden spoon hurled end over end.

He slides down the cupboard and sits there with his knees drawn up, wondering if there’d ever been a similar news bulletin about him, wondering if anyone had looked for him. He feels as if his very own Loch Ness monster is stirring in the murky depths of his subconscious: elusive, uncapturable, visible only as ripples disturbing the surface.

He pulls himself together, though – he always does – and by the time Danni hauls her ass in the door, dog-tired and bitching about Fred, the Szechuan beef stir-fry is ready and the wine’s chilling in the fridge. They eat, chat, decompress.

Dean’s got closing shift at the bar tonight, and means to head out directly after supper, but Danni’s giving him come-hither eyes. They leave the dishes, chasing each other up the stairs, shedding clothes as they go. He leaves the house fifteen minutes late but there’s almost no traffic on the road, and one thing he figured out early on is that he loves to drive. Fast.

 

  


Jared needs to figure out what to do about Jensen.

He knows he ought to call in and tell Jeff that he’s located the man they thought died four years ago. He wants to get a bit more info first, though. Because if Jensen’s alive, and working down here, and hiding from the Ghosts… that could mean a lot of things, most of them bad.

Jensen was one of the best agents Jeff ever had; if he’s sided against them, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with. Jared can’t quite believe that Jensen would betray them, though. What if he’s undercover? Maybe Jeff’s running something really complex, and left the rest of the Ghosts out of the loop. Maybe only the top brass know. Or maybe it was just Jared who wasn’t told. Because….

He needs to figure out what Jensen’s up to, who he’s working for and what he’s doing here in San Antonio of all places. And maybe if he focuses hard enough on the here-and-now, on observation and hard facts and politics, he can avoid thinking about the worst thing of all.

Jensen is alive. Has been, for the past four hellish years. And hasn’t contacted _Jared._

He thinks about calling Gen to ask her advice, but decides against it. He’s sure she’d be thrilled – she spent so long helping Jared try to locate him, and was there for Jared when he found out Jensen had been in that blast – but he’s not absolutely sure he can trust her to keep it secret. She’s ambitious. She joined Jeff’s team not long after Jared did, and worked her way up the administration hierarchy almost as fast as Jared climbed the ranks of the Ghosts. And he’d been forced up them, massive leap forward when Jensen died – no, not died. Disappeared.

Because there’s no question it’s Jensen. His hair’s longer, and there are softer edges to his face; it’s missing the sharp, wolfish look Jared remembers. The scruff of beard is new – the golf hat is _definitely_ new – but the body hasn’t lost any definition and the eyes are the same clear green Jared saw every time he closed his eyes for the first year after Jensen got blown to high heaven.

Gen might take this mess higher herself, if she thought she’d gain from it. Jared can’t afford to let that happen yet. Maybe Jeff and the others would all be surprised, too. Maybe it hadn’t been a lie.

But maybe someone knew Jensen survived and had decided not to tell Jared. And if that’s the case, Jared is going to take that person apart.

_After_ he sorts out what the fuck to do about Jensen.

First, though, he needs to sort out what brought him down here in the first place. Harley’s impossible discovery has already cut significantly into the time he’d allowed to get to the rendezvous point. Protocol is strict: if Jared isn’t there within eight minutes of the agreed time, his contact will be gone, and any subsequent attempt to get in touch directly will be assumed to be compromised. He’ll have to call back in to Jeff and get a whole new set-up, orders coming down from the top once again.

Jared makes a point of _never_ being late.

Moving through crowds with large dogs is tough enough. Doing it fast and unobtrusively, especially when you’re almost six and a half feet tall, takes skill. Which Jared has; he’s been doing this for years, and despite a particularly thick press of people around the subway exit he passes, he saunters into the coffee shop only three minutes behind schedule.

He orders an iced mocha latte and flashes his dimples at the barista. She winks back and makes him an extra-large, although he only paid for a medium. On the way out, Sadie’s wagging tail catches an edge of newspaper hanging off one of the tables and knocks it to the floor. Jared leaps forward and picks it up, apologizing profusely and offering it back to its owner, who grumbles something about animals in an eating establishment and ignores him.

Outside, Jared scratches Sadie behind the ears and heads for the tiny park two blocks away, a miniscule scrap of green space in an ocean of concrete. There’s only one tree and very little shade; Sadie and Harley flop down under the bench Jared sits on, trying to fit into his shadow.

A second shadow falls across them and Chris sits down next to Jared.

“It’s a shitty paper anyway,” Jared says. “Pure StarOil propaganda.”

“Still mine,” Chris says mildly. “Man’s got a right to read his propaganda in peace.”

“You probably wrote half of it.”

“Yup,” Chris nods. “Sad what passes for journalism these days. They’ll print almost anything I send ‘em word for word.”

“And Jeff sends it to you?”

Chris’ gaze turns steely. “You know what you need to, Jared. Quit pokin’.”

Jared lounges back, stretches out his legs, and takes a slurp of his drink. “Don’t know shit yet. You gonna tell me why I’m down here?”

His tone doesn’t waver but something, a breath, the faintest tension, must have been perceptible because Chris immediately softens, as much as Chris ever does. Not like he wouldn’t have noticed Jared hasn’t come back to San Antonio since – well, since.

“A girl.”

Jared waits.

“Name’s Alona. She worked security for the Republic. Or so they thought.”

“Another Ghost?” Jared’s surprised. He’s never heard of her. Jeff likes his secrets, but as need-to-know goes, Jared’s generally needed to know just about everything.

San Antonio, though. Jared might not have known about that.

Chris is shaking his head, though. “Nope. Free State of California.”

“Huh.”

Jared pops the top off his cup and licks the bottom of the straw. He swipes his fingers through the foam stuck to the sides and offers it to Sadie. She laps it off eagerly.

“Ugh,” Chris grimaces. “You and those dogs are way too cozy.”

“They’re family.” Jared sticks his fingers back in the cup, gives Harley a taste.

Chris makes a gagging noise. “Whatever. Anyway. She started working for the Republic about six months after it stabilized. Only she was actually sent over from Cali. She was good – they had no idea.”

“Jeff knew,” Jared says. It isn’t a question.

Chris nods anyway. “You know Jeff.”

Jared doesn’t really – he doesn’t think anyone does – but he knows that much. Jeff’s network of contacts is second to none. He buys and sells information, from the insignificant to the world-changing, and he has an unerring eye for value. In Jeff’s hands, often the apparently insignificant _is_ world-changing.

“Far as I know, Jeff didn’t have dealings with her,” Chris continues, “till she got in touch with him two days ago.”

Jared blinks. _That_ is unusual. People don’t go looking for Jeff. He knows you exist; it’s a one-way mirror.

“I said she was good,” Chris sighs. “Someone in the Republic had twigged to her, and she knew it. She was planning to get out.”

“And she went to Jeff?” Jared’s still puzzled. “If she was really that good, she should have had an exit plan.” Jared always has one. Usually at least three.

“She did. And she guessed that Jeff would be asked to stop her.”

Jared tries to mask his surprise, but Chris smirks at him anyway. “Sure enough, the Republic wanted her picked up quietly, no police. Someone called Jeff the same day she did. She figured she’d have trouble getting past him, and she gambled that Jeff would want her info enough to let this one fail.”

“She _is_ good,” Jared admits.

“Was,” Chris says heavily. “She’s missing. Jeff took her up on it. Only she disappeared that afternoon, on her way in. Cali swears she isn’t with them, and Jeff believes them. I can’t find her, and Chad hasn’t managed to pick up a trace. So, you and your mutts are up next.”

Jared considers. “He needs her found fast.”

“He wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”

“I know,” Jared says. “I – it’s okay. Really.”

“I wasn’t down here regular myself until a few months ago,” Chris says. “Jeff usually gives Mike the San Antone jobs, but he must be in deep somewhere else right now. Hasn’t been around since January.”

“I never know what Mike’s up to,” Jared says, “even when he’s around.”

Chris is frowning at him. “You okay?”

He realizes his left knee is jittering wildly. He bites his lip and forces it to stop. God, he hasn’t been this unprofessional in years.

“Too much coffee,” he lies.

“Been here too long already,” Chris says. “I need to head back. You do what you do, report in to Jeff. We don’t meet up again.”

He stands, lays a hand heavy on Jared’s shoulder. “I miss him too, y’know.”

Jared hesitates, meaning to lie again, but Chris was there for the original search and was one of Jensen’s best friends. He deserves to know.

“I nearly missed the meeting today,” he says slowly, “because Harley picked up a trail that shouldn’t have been there.”

He looks Chris dead in the eye. “I let him follow it, and I saw – I saw Jensen. He’s alive.”

 

  


When Chris finally leaves, Jared takes a moment to sit and calm himself. The dogs wind around him, gazing at him soulfully and rubbing their heads against his legs. They always know when he’s hurting, always try to make it better.

Chris had pressed him for details. Jared had explained that he didn’t have any, at which point Chris got a little wild-eyed and started ranting.

_“…can’t just fucking tell me something like that without_ proof, _Jay! Why the hell didn’t you trail him? ‘S more important than…”_

_“Hey, it’s not like I was_ expecting… _”_

_“You never did! Never took care of him like you should…”_

Jared shut him down real quick after that and told Chris to get the fuck out before he said something he’d regret. Plus they were starting to attract attention and that was the last thing they needed.

He’ll have to sort that out tomorrow. Find Jensen, deal with Chris, talk to Jeff, all of it can wait. Right now, he’s got a job to do. A girl to find.

He picks up the newspaper Chris left on the bench and unfolds it. A small plastic ziplock bag falls out of the classified ads. Jared opens the bag and holds it down so that Harley, and especially Sadie, can sniff at the piece of pale green fabric inside. It looks like it’s been cut from a tank top or exercise bra; it’s a good choice, should have her sweat, her scent deeply embedded. He imagines Chris pocketing it from her laundry hamper or maybe her gym locker. Something she crumpled up and dropped in a pile to deal with later.

So many things left behind, incomplete, undone.

The dogs nuzzle his hands. They have it, now. He tucks the bag into his pocket for secure disposal later and leaves the park, heading back to the SUV. He deposits the newspaper in a bank of recycling bins outside the market, after reading the short article about the missing woman and noting the address from which she disappeared.

In the car, he fires up the GPS and plots a course that will cover the obvious exit routes to take from that block, without ever coming too close to the actual building in which she worked. He stares at the map, tilting his head in a couple of different directions, and then also plots out some routes that are very much _not_ obvious. Finally, he works out the best way to cover the ground and where to leave the SUV.

Along the route, there’s a public ComNet point. He pulls over and sends a quick message from a mayfly account: _Met up with C. SA is a great place to hang this time of year! Heading out to do some shopping._ He continues on to his chosen spot and parks, being sure to Pay And Display. Nothing like having your vehicle tagged or towed while on assignment. Ask him how he knows this.

“Time for a walk,” he says, and the dogs bounce with enthusiasm.

He heads off down the street, smiling widely at people, looking in shop windows, being an obvious tourist. The dogs wind around obstacles, sniff and pant and charm people, and Jared keeps walking the route mapped out in his head, waiting for the moment when one of them signals, and watching for signs of trouble.

San Antonio’s a nice city to walk in. He always loved coming downtown. The sights and smells of the market, the crowds of tourists, the music and laughter spilling out of cafes and restaurants. Megan would want to stop in every store selling funky jewelry, while Jared usually added to his crazy T-shirt collection.

He’s missed being here. He has lots of good memories of the city. They’re just all overshadowed by the most recent, and most devastating. It made perfect sense that a floundering, desperate United States government trying to quell a Texas rebellion would target San Antonio. Its concentration of military bases made it an obvious threat. Jared’s studied strategy; he understands that. He also understands that there are always unpredictable happenings, unexpected consequences, casualties. Like the missiles, intended for the airfields, that took out half a subdivision. His only consolation was the thought that his parents and Megan likely never knew what hit them.

Three months later, Jensen was down here on a job, and died in another fucking explosion. Probably some guerilla reunification group, not that anyone knew for sure. Too much craziness that year, too many unimaginable things. Too many deaths to track.

Every year, when the Republic of Texas celebrates its independence, Jared stays indoors away from the crowds, turns up the music, and gets stinking drunk.

He’s thought about moving, but really, where else would he go? He makes good money with Jeff, and it’s not like he has any official credentials. Jeff’s been considerate enough to give him mostly northern jobs, with an occasional run outside the Republic. His only close friends are Ghosts – it’s not the kind of job that fosters outside attachments – and he wasn’t going be doing the relationship thing any time soon, if ever.

There’s been nothing to pull him anywhere else.

And now, it looks like there might be every reason to stay.

 

  


Chris kicks the door shut behind him and heads for the liquor cabinet. Twisting the top off a mostly-empty bottle of rye, he forgoes a glass and takes a swig straight from the bottle, relishing the slow burn that slides down to his stomach.

He drops down onto the sofa and stares at the far wall as he drinks, thinking about possibilities and opportunities, chances and costs.

He’d thought he’d made his peace with all of it, long ago, but this. This changes the playing field in ways he’s not even sure of yet.

There’s a chance, though, and by the time the bottle’s empty, he knows he’s not letting it get away this time. Sometimes, selfish is what you gotta be.

It takes several rings, and the female voice that picks up is far from friendly.

“Jared thinks he saw Jensen,” Chris says without preamble.

There’s a long pause, before she says, “What do you think?”

Chris stretches out and props his feet up on the coffee table. “I think I need to find him first.”

“With you on _that,_ ” she says, and Chris smiles to himself because he _knew_ it. This is why he called; they are on exactly the same page.

“Fuck,” she says. “San Antonio. I swear we swept that place clean.”

“We did,” Chris says. “He must have come back pretty recently.”

“Kind of embarrassing for you,” she says. “You’re there two weeks out of every three; Jared shows up and finds him inside of an hour.”

“Fuck you, bitch, I thought he was _dead,_ ” Chris snaps. “We all quit looking years ago. You too. So don’t give me that shit. I actually gave a damn about him.”

“Do you think he’s got it?”

“I don’t know.” Chris chews his lip. “It’s been four years. Why hasn’t he made a move yet, if he does?”

He can practically hear her thinking.

“Not sure,” she says finally. “You figure it out. He’s your boy.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Chris says. “But I’m thinking you’ll wanna help me there.”

“I’ll work on it,” she says. “Still. Jensen hasn’t contacted _him._ That tells you something.”

“It does. I just don’t know what.”

She sighs. “Keep your head down. Give me till morning, I’ll find him for you.”

Chris laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. Already on it.”

“So why are you calling?”

“Figured you could help me call off the dogs,” Chris drawls, and it’s her turn to laugh.

“It won’t be easy,” she says.

“You don’t like it easy, baby,” Chris says, and hangs up before she can retaliate.

 

  


It’s Sadie who signals first. Harley follows suit within seconds, either picking it up himself or responding to Sadie.

Jared gives them the sign for _undercover_ and follows their lead. That’s one of the things that sets Jared’s dogs apart: they don’t _look_ like tracking dogs. If he asks them, they will sniff things and frolic and trot along and look as goofy and normal as they do on their days off, and all the while they’re leading Jared, not the other way around.

The route the dogs follow is a slightly odd one. Alona must have known, or suspected, she was being followed.

They stop halfway up a block of nondescript storefronts. Sadie casts around the sidewalk and curb. She must have been put in a car here. Jared smiles grimly, and leans down to rub Sadie behind the ears.

“You can do it, girl,” he whispers to her. “Take your time.”

She licks his hand briefly and goes back to work, scenting the ground, the air, the asphalt. Harley is doing his best, too, but cars are difficult; Jared’s putting his money on Sadie.

A man and woman are wandering down the street towards him. Harley obligingly pees on a parking meter, giving Jared a reason to be standing there. He gives the couple a bashful smile and small shrug as they pass.

Sadie tugs once, and she’s off. Jared decides to jog for now. There’s no way to tell how far the car went. If it looks like it might have left the city, he’ll have to head back and get the SUV, but that does make Sadie’s job a helluva lot harder. There are plenty of government facilities in the city, though, if the Republic took her. Someone else, it could go either way.

It’s early evening and the shadows are falling long and clean. A beautiful day for a run. Sadie hardly pauses at cross-streets, chasing, turning.

One last turn and the view opens up in front of him. There’s a large construction site ahead. His heart sinks.

It’s deserted, the workers long gone for the day, the excavators and cranes sitting idle and brooding. The surrounding fence is mostly to keep the public from falling in a hole; it’s not security in any real sense of the word. Jared loops the dog leads around a power pole and vaults the fence so he can take his time picking the lock unobserved on the inside. He might as well not have bothered, as it only takes him about six seconds.

He unclips the leashes and waves the dogs inside. Sadie lopes along the edge of the foundation, heading for the far side of the half-finished building. It looks like it’s going to be a large block of offices, maybe apartments, around a central courtyard. Most of it is framed up to the fourth story, walls already layered with pink slabs of insulation and blue sheets of vapor barrier. The back wing is farther along than the sides, metal siding panels hiding the bright colors. Jared hopes he doesn’t have to tear that down; he’d probably need machinery and that would attract attention at this time of day.

Sure enough, Sadie heads for the back corner and stops. Fortunately, the metal sheeting stops several yards short of the corner. Jared taps along the wall, listening closely to identify the placement of the steel beams. He pulls out his cutter and slices through the insulation and drywall between them with ease, breathing a sigh of relief that the crew had decided to knock off on time rather than press on and finish that section.

The panel pops out and he stands it against the adjacent wall. He peers into the hole but only sees some wiring. He fishes out his flashlight and looks down, left and right. Nothing. He glances at Sadie and raises his eyebrows. She just looks back at him, tongue lolling out. Alona’s here, all right. He _really_ hopes she’s not in the foundation.

No, she can’t be. It’s too well cured, and the building’s too far along; it must have been poured at least a week ago.

He looks up, and there she is, caught on a crossbeam several feet up. Probably dropped down between the walls from the upper scaffolding.

He’d figured the minute he saw the construction site that she couldn’t be alive. But it’s still a shock of sadness, disappointment, and failure. _Sometimes, it’s too late. You can’t save them all._ He knows that, but every death haunts him.

Jared pulls himself together, and undoes his shirt.

He unwinds the rope from around his waist, weights it with the cutter, and lassos her ankle. He tugs her down with one hand, covering his nose and mouth with the other against the shower of insulation, dust and dirt that flies up when she lands.

Dead maybe forty-eight hours. Not that he’s a pathologist or anything, but he’s been around. That fits with the trail he’s just followed; she must have been brought here and killed directly.

He categorizes her injuries with grim detachment. Shot through the back of the head. Marks indicate her wrists were restrained, and one shoulder has been dislocated. Lacerations and bruising suggest the side of her face was smashed against the wall more than once. Her spine is bent backwards at an odd angle, probably broken, but Jared thinks that likely happened when they dropped the body into its hiding place.

It looks like she died right here, right away, and that makes Jared uneasy.

The Republic wanted her. But they’re unlikely to have killed her straight off: they would have wanted to know what she’d passed on to Cali. Even if she’d told them everything, there’s little reason for them to kill her; she’s a potentially valuable bargaining chip. And why ask Jeff to pick her up, if they were already set to take her out? It doesn’t make sense.

Some rival faction, maybe? The Republic won’t be happy if she died before they could work her over. This screw-up could seriously undermine Jeff’s credibility. And not just with the government; maybe even with Cali, too, if the Free State knew their agent had contacted Jeff. Jared’s always thought of Jeff and the Ghosts as unique but really, there’s no reason someone else couldn’t set up in the same way.

It’s a chilling thought. Jeff’s – Jeff. These days, some people think he and the Ghosts are the unofficial branch of Republic security: Men in Black; MI6. It hadn’t always been like that. Whatever Jeff did, he was in it for himself, and the operation he’d started had been pretty much illegal until the change in government a few years back. Being the ones _responsible_ for the coup, they could hardly be deemed illegal under the new order, but they still aren’t exactly welcomed into official circles. Jeff likes it that way, Jared thinks, likes being a power behind the throne.

Jared had had high hopes for the new government. He’d believed that things would be different, that maybe the more liberal factions might start moving Texas back to a more centered position. It’s not like he’s hankering to move to the North or anything, but it’d be nice if his love life weren’t a felony. When they first took over, they talked a lot about reversing some of the right-wing laws the first Republic had instituted, yet it seems like nothing much has changed. Jeff says these things take time, but it’s been three years and Jared’s feeling cynical.

Jeff doesn’t seem disillusioned. Maybe he sees possibilities Jared doesn’t. Jeff’s good at that, at taking the long view. Or maybe, Jared thinks, Jeff never believed that in the first place. Maybe he just said what Jared needed to hear to make him fall in line. Make him a good little soldier.

Jared’s a loyal sort of person. In the end, Jeff’s loyal to himself.

Jared winds up the rope, tucks away his tools, and slides the panel back into place. He’s done his job finding her; he’s not going to haul a corpse through the streets. He sends the code words from his phone. Headquarters monitors the GPS of every agent; if Jeff decides he wants the corpse, they’ll have coordinates for the retrieval team. He takes some photos, too.

Sadie and Harley dance around his legs, looking up hopefully.

“Treats in the car,” he tells them.

It’s almost full dark now, as they walk back to the SUV. Jared thinks about going back to pick up Jensen’s trail, but they’d look a bit unusual, tracking through the streets late at night. He’ll crash for the night, head over to the market in the morning, and let Harley take it from there. It’s been four years. One more day can’t make that much difference.

His dreams that night are full of Jensen. But that’s nothing new.

 

  


It’s open mike night and the bar’s moderately crowded, with a mix of the usual crowd and tourists. There’s a small cluster of women at the far end of the bar who take turns ordering drinks with innuendo-laden names and shrieking with over-loud laughter. Dean smiles politely, makes the drinks, pockets the tips and ditches the phone numbers, and shoves Matt in their direction when he can’t take any more.

At least none of them get up to sing. The level of talent can vary widely at these things, but tonight’s attracted a fairly high quality crowd. The fourth guy in particular knows his way around a guitar and while his voice isn’t exactly pretty, it’s strong and perfectly suited to the soulful country-rock ballads he croons. He’s new; Dean doesn’t recall ever seeing him in here before, let alone on stage. The crowd likes him.

He does a set of three, then takes a bow and steps down and heads for the bar. He leaves his guitar case on the stage, though, giving a nod and a wink to the ladies clamoring for an encore, promise of more to come.

He slides on to a stool at Dean’s end of the bar but he doesn’t wave him over, just waits until Dean finishes polishing a glass and heads his way.

“Sam Adams, and a whisky chaser,” he requests. He meets Dean’s eyes directly and there’s an appraising look in his blue eyes that Dean doesn’t quite understand.

Dean fetches the drinks and slides them across to the man. He tips back half the beer in a single long series of gulps. “Thirsty business.”

“Nice job up there.”

“Thanks.” He finishes off most of the remaining beer. “You play?”

“Me? Nah, never learned.” Dean shrugs. “I’m plenty busy back here.”

“You should give it a try sometime,” the guy says. “Might surprise yourself.”

There’s something in his voice Dean can’t place.

“Maybe you’ve got hidden depths.”

It’s the kind of line he’s more used to hearing from the gaggle of girls down the other end, while they lean over the bar with cleavage on prominent display. Is the guy _flirting_ with him? It doesn’t feel like it – though Dean supposes that any same-sex flirting is going to be pretty subtle, given that the criminalization of homosexuality was among the first batch of new laws the Republic passed after separating. Maybe gay guys have a code, a way to surreptitiously test the waters before making a move.

If so, Dean doesn’t know it.

“Don’t we all, man,” he says. “Another beer?”

“Sure,” the guy says, after a too-long pause.

He pays for his drinks – tipping nicely but not extravagantly, and there’s no phone number attached – and heads back to a table near the stage.

For the next couple of hours, Dean catches sight of him every so often, when the crowd around the bar swirls and parts, but he’s always looking at the stage, and he doesn’t come back to the bar, though one of his buddies collects a couple of pitchers for the table.

He does get up and sing once more, shortly before midnight. Those bright blue eyes never look Dean’s way, so it’s hard to say why Dean feels, the whole time, like someone is watching him.

The set ends; the guy leaves. Dean finishes his shift and closes out the place a couple of hours later. The parking lot’s deserted but as he walks to his car, he gets that feeling again.

He turns the wrong way out of the parking lot, swings up a few side streets, and takes a circuitous route home. Just in case. Like something he saw in a movie once, maybe. He feels a little dumb about it, but not enough to drive straight home. When he gets there, he kills the lights and sits in the car for a few minutes, until the neighbor’s cat jumps on the hood of the car and peers inquiringly at him through the windshield.

He laughs ruefully at himself – what the fuck does he think he’s doing? – and goes in to bed. Danni mutters but doesn’t wake up as he crawls in beside her.

He still feels unsettled. He lies awake staring at the spill of her hair on the pillow, dark in the moonlight, and wishes he at least knew his own name.

Sleep is a long time coming and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember.

 

  


She doesn’t block her ID on this call. She taps her fingers impatiently as the ComNet interface flashes. The audiolink connects but video is refused.

“The fuck? You know what time it is?” he grumbles.

“Shut up,” she says flatly. “It’s time to pick up after yourself. Jensen Ackles is alive and working in a bar in San Antonio.”

She takes pleasure in imagining his fish-mouthed expression.

“You are fucking _kidding_ me,” he says finally.

She doesn’t dignify this with a response.

“Fuck,” he says, after another pause. “Does he have it? Why’s he been staying away from the Ghosts?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she says, “but they’ll try and bring him in. Two of them are on the ground there already. You want to suppress this, you need to take care of it before they find him.”

“Goddamn,” he says. “Give me the address, I’ll head out now.”

She shakes her head automatically, even though he can’t see. “Not yet. Wait a few hours.”

“What the hell for?” She can hear him moving around the room, opening a drawer. “You don’t think your guys’ll be making this top priority? You already woke me up, you bitch. I’m going now. It’s dark, it’s easy.”

“Not so much,” she says, bitter amusement sliding into her voice. “See, I do my job thoroughly, unlike _some_ people. There’s someone else at that address, and you’ll never guess who.”

She tells him. There is yet another long pause, followed by incredulous cursing.

“Yeah,” she says. “You might think you can handle that, but I’m not so sure. Plus,” she went on, talking steadily over his protests, “you _know_ you can’t afford to be recognized. If the Republic finds out you’re shafting them on this, your bosses are going down. So, wait until it’s clear, and then _get it done._ I am not letting Ackles fuck my life up again.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is not a morning person. In the early weeks of their relationship he used to try to get up with Danni, to make her coffee and wave her off. Nowadays, he rolls over into the warmth she leaves behind and grunts a sleepy acknowledgment if she drops a kiss on top of his head before heading out. It may be the result of working bartender hours, but Dean suspects he’s never been an early riser.

He doesn’t set an alarm clock. The sunlight eventually makes its way across his face. It’s a kinder, gentler way to wake up. Actually, it’s probably his internal clock that does it, since he wakes up at the same time on rainy days too, but he likes sunny days best. There’s something wonderful about stretching out in the sun and not having to get up. Sometimes, he’ll stay in bed till after noon, reading and drowsing. Their house is in an older area, with larger lots and beautiful old trees, space between the dwellings. He likes the quiet.

It’s Friday, though, and he’s due at the elementary school at 12:30 for lunchtime reading help group, so when bars of sun stream across the pillow he hauls himself up and heads for the shower. Crossing the landing, he smiles at the rich, earthy smell in the air; Danni must have set the coffeemaker on timer for him.

He has a quick shower, towels off his hair, and pulls on boxers and a pair of pants before heading downstairs. Coffee first; grooming can wait.

Danni’s left the paper strewn across the counter. He sits at the breakfast bar, feet tucked around the legs of the stool, and drinks his first cup of coffee as fast as its heat will allow. He pours a second and lets it stand to cool slightly while he makes toast, buttering it and cutting it into precise triangles.

She’s on page 5, the missing woman, government employee who vanished without trace three days ago. There’s a picture. She looks young and innocent, too much so for an unstable world like this. Around her are other stories of loss and mayhem. Another subway bombing in the New Democratic Union. A hurricane expected in the Gulf. Ecoterrorists have taken out yet another dam in the North, their concrete-eating algae overrunning it within a week; government scientists still haven’t figured out how the Greens activate and/or shut off the biological menace. 

The microwave display reads 11:23. Time to get moving. He licks his fingers and systematically cleans the crumbs from the plate before depositing it and his empty cup in the dishwasher. He goes upstairs and picks out a shirt, tossing it on the bed, and heads for the bathroom.

He smears shaving cream across both cheeks, rubs a hand over his throat. The razor clears long smooth swathes along his face, lightly tanned skin emerging through the white foam obscuring it. He finds he’s holding his breath as he shaves upwards along his throat. The world seems even more quiet than usual, the scrape of blade across skin the only noise, until he turns on the faucet, rinses the razor.

He runs a cloth under the warm water and wipes his face clean. Just as he opens his eyes, there’s the tiniest flicker of motion in the mirror. 

Before he even registers the movement, Dean is dropping to the floor, tucking his head and rolling into a ball towards the window behind him. Window and mirror splinter, glass shards flying everywhere, shattering further on the tiled floor.

There’s no sound from outside. Dean knows, somehow, this is bad, this is worse than yells or running footsteps or the cocking of a gun. This is someone who knows their job.

He’s crouched under the window and it hits him how ridiculous a situation this is. He ought to be paralyzed with fear – fuck that, he ought to be _dead_ – and instead it’s as if he’s divided, half of him watching from above while something in the hindbrain judges distances, vectors, speed. 

There’s a bullet buried in the wall at the height of his head. At least one person is outside. It is likely someone else is downstairs. There is no gun in the house. He can get across the room and through the door in 1.7 seconds, but he will almost certainly cut his bare feet; that will slow him down and leave a blood trail. His phone is on the bedside table. He is still holding the facecloth.

He knots the cloth around his right foot, counts to three, and leaps forward, pushing off the wall and ducking his head.

Another shot cracks the silence but nothing hurts; he can’t be hit. In three long strides he’s reached the doorway; he falls through, rolling on the carpet and kicking the door shut. His left foot is bleeding but the cuts are shallow. The facecloth has mostly kept the glass out of his right foot. He thinks, a little wildly, that he’s glad Danni insisted on the expensive, thick Egyptian cotton towel sets.

The window that lets in the sunshine is now a threat; he stays low and crawls towards the bed. He reaches up and snags his phone off the table, jamming it in his pants pocket.

Another round thuds into the hallway doorframe. He gives up on trying to grab his shirt and instead edges along the wall least visible from the window, getting as close to the door as he dares. He says a silent prayer, counts to three, and makes a run for it.

He barely sees the bullet miss him by inches, but he can feel the rush of air.

He kicks the bedroom door shut as well and races for the top of the stairs. He pauses there a moment to think. The house security system should already have been triggered so he has to assume it’s been disabled. He has a phone, he could dial 911, but their response times are suboptimal and he’s not sure he’ll survive that long. 

The car key should be on the hook by the front door. God. Please let him have hung it up last night. He was too tired and unsettled, he can’t remember if he did.

He slides down the stairs, next to the wall where they’re least likely to creak. He steps over the fourth stair from the bottom entirely; it’s always noisy. He takes a deep breath and peers quickly around the corner of the stairs. The hall is apparently empty.

He steps in, moves towards the front door. His hand is on the key when the door opens.

It’s the guy from the bar. With a gun.

The hall’s too long and straight; Dean won’t be able to get out of the way.

The guy is just staring at him, though. They stand there a few seconds, frozen, and then Dean hears the tiniest noise behind him.

He ducks as he turns. He catches a glimpse of a tall shape stepping into the hall from the kitchen – he must have come in the back door. There’s a muffled bang – _silencer,_ his brain supplies – and the guy from the bar staggers back as the shot barely misses Dean and grazes him instead. Dean takes advantage, shoves past him and out the door, slamming it shut against any further shots and palming the maglock. It might slow them down, buy him a few seconds at least.

He races down the steps and across the front lawn, heading for the car. He’s glancing back over his shoulder, expecting pursuit any second, and so it’s a surprise when he rounds the hedge and crashes straight into a third guy.

The man isn’t visibly armed, but his hands come up and lock tightly around Dean’s biceps. Dean thrashes and struggles, trying to get away. Shit, this guy is _big._

“Whoa, calm down!” the man says. “It’s okay!”

Dean kicks out, locks his knee behind the other man’s and sends them tumbling to the ground, spreading his arms apart to break the guy’s hold. Or, that’s the plan; the man takes the fall on his shoulder and rolls, keeping his grip on Dean. Dean ends up on his back, both arms still pinned, and a knee on his chest.

“You’re real,” the man says, breathlessly. “You’re alive.”

Dean blinks in confusion. “Yeah, and you’re trying to fucking kill me!”

“What? No…” the man says, and just then the front door slams open and another shot rings out.

“Jesus Christ!” the guy hisses. “Who the hell is that?” He lets go of Dean and crouches next to him, peering through the hedge.

Dean rolls to his feet, also crouching. “One of your buddies who’s trying to _kill me!”_

“I’m _not_ trying to kill you!” The guy’s eyes dart to the car a few feet away, then back up to the house. “I just want to know what’s going on!”

“That makes two of us,” Dean hisses, “but I’m not staying around to find out.”

He dashes for the car, ducking behind the rear wheel and hitting the unlock button on the remote. He reaches up and opens the driver’s door a fraction, pulls it open and leaps in. He ducks down again and presses the brake pedal with his left hand, as he reaches up with his right and hits the start button. It’s the first time he’s been grateful for Danni’s choice of stupid modern hybrid car; he always wanted a vintage car but he can’t imagine fumbling with keys in the ignition right now. He shifts into reverse, still hunched low in the seat, and just as the car’s picking up speed, the passenger door opens too and the third guy leaps in.

“Get the fuck out!” Dean shouts. He dares a quick glance above the dash as he backs into the street. The guy from the bar is running down the drive, one hand pressed to his ribs where blood is blooming on his shirt. He catches a flicker of movement by the front door; a tall, dark-haired shape crosses the opening swiftly and is as quickly hidden.

“No!” the man yells back, as Dean brakes. “I finally found you, I’m not letting you leave until you tell me what’s going on!”

Dean slams the car into drive and then the words sink in.

“You _know_ me?”

The man stares back at him, open-mouthed, overlong hair falling in his oddly colored eyes.

“You _don’t?_ ”

The rear window shatters. Dean swears and the car leaps forward. His passenger glances in the rearview mirror and looks even more frantic. “God _damn._ What’s he doing here?”

“You know _him?_ ”

“Just drive!”

Dean is more than willing to do so.

“They’ll trace your car,” the man says. “Mine’s ten blocks away. Come with me.”

“Are you insane?” Dean says. “I don’t know you! People I don’t know are shooting at me! I’m supposed to be reading to eight-year-olds in half an hour! I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Turn left here.”

Dean’s hindbrain makes the choice for him, and he does.

“Maybe you don’t know me,” the man says. “But I know you. Please just… trust me on this, okay? There’s something fucked up going on here…”

“No _shit!_ ”

“…and I’ll help you, I promise. But we really need to switch to my car.”

“Where?” Dean says, then blinks. Clearly his mouth is operating independent of higher brain functions.

The man sighs in relief. “Take another left here – _left!_ – and then a right just past the lights…”

Dean wrenches the wheel over, car dancing along the edge of the curb. The dispassionate part of him observes that shock and hysteria are setting in.

“There.”

It’s an underground parking garage. “Level two.”

Dean pulls in where he gestures, next to a large black SUV. Two very large dogs are going crazy in the back of it.

“They’re pretty happy to see you,” the man says. “Harley’s been looking for you for a long time.”

He unlocks the doors and sticks his head in. “Not now, okay? No, Sadie, _down._ Stay in the back, Daddy’s gotta drive.”

Dean gets in the passenger seat. A backpack lands on his lap.

“Hand me the gun. And pick yourself a shirt.”

Dean opens it and takes out the gun lying on top of everything. He hefts it thoughtfully. It fits in his palm. The way the knife did.

“You wanna shoot out the security cameras yourself, be my guest. Just get on with it.”

He passes the guy the gun and digs for a shirt. The truck pulls out of the parking space and heads for the exit. He pulls the shirt over his head. There’s a muffled thud and the crash of breaking glass. 

“One camera down. There’ll be another at the exit.”

The shirt, which clearly belongs to this guy, or possibly a gorilla, hangs loose on Dean but it’s better than nothing.

“Duck,” the man says, “don’t let it capture you before I get it,” and then there’s another crash of glass. “Okay.”

They pull out onto the street.

“There’s a spare pair of boots in the back,” his rescuer says. “They’ll be kind of big. You’ll need extra socks, there should be some in there.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean says. “Escaping barefoot is tough.”

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” the man says, and then looks like he’s trying to swallow his tongue.

“So,” Dean says into the awkward silence. “What’s your name?”

“Jared,” the guy says. “Padalecki. Uh. What’s – what’s yours?”

“You’re rescuing me and you don’t know my name?”

“Uh,” Jared says again. “Yeah. It’s, uh. Complicated.”

“You owe me a really _long_ explanation.”

He stares at himself in the mirror on the sun visor. 

The thin white scar at the hairline on his left temple is all that remains. He remembers putting a hand to his aching head, bringing it down sticky and warm with blood. He remembers staring at the mirror over the hospital sink, wondering how the man looking back at him had burned his feet, broken his ribs, and cracked his skull, letting memory leak out.

“You know me,” he says, echoing himself. “You know _me._ Who I used to be.”

“…Yeah,” Jared says. “I…”

He’s interrupted by the ringing of Dean’s phone. Dean pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the display.

It’s Danni. 

“Don’t answer it,” Jared says harshly.

“It’s my girlfriend!” Dean hisses. “She’s at work, I gotta warn her!” He hits the button before Jared can stop him. “Danni, hey.”

“Dean!” He jerks his head back and stares at the phone in surprise. He has never heard her sound so rattled, not the time her mother was in hospital, not the time her laptop crashed and took all her work with it twenty minutes before the meeting of the year. Not even the time she thought she was pregnant. _“Where are you?”_

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” Jared is staring him down, grim and wide-eyed, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Danneel, listen. _Don’t go home._ Some guys – ”

She cuts him off. “I know. I’m here.”

“Fuck!” He slams a hand against the dash. “Danni, fuck, get out of there! They might be watching, they might – I don’t know what the fuck they want! I was in the bathroom and – ”

“Dean,” she says, “listen to me. The guy you’re with now, he is _not_ your friend. I don’t know what he’s said to you, but if stuff like this is happening, you need to go to the police. They’ll protect you, okay? Get away as soon as you can.”

“What the hell? Danni, how did you know I was – who – I can’t just – what…”

Jared takes the phone from his hand, snaps it shut, and throws it out the window.

Dean’s shaking his hand, knuckles stinging, as Jared reels from the punch to the jaw that Dean hadn’t even registered throwing. Horns honk loudly as the SUV swerves and swings back into its lane. Dean gulps. Punching the guy currently driving was not his brightest move today. 

Jared pulls over into a side street and throws the vehicle into park. He turns to look at Dean.

“Listen, _please,_ ” Jared says, rapidly and intently, hands up, eyes wide. “I swear, I will explain everything, okay? Only this is _really_ not a good time to be hanging around here, we have got to get moving, they’ll be right behind us. I can get us out but you gotta let me do it, and I’m sorry you can’t talk to your girlfriend right now but I – please _please_ just trust me on this?”

The words swirl in Dean’s ears. He has a thousand questions, starting with _what the fuck is going on_ and _who the hell are you_ and _how does Danni know I’m with someone_ , but there’s a strange pressure building in his head.

“Hey, are you okay? You look awful.”

Jared is leaning in too close, peering at his eyes. Dean shoves him back with a hand on his chest, blinking hard and willing himself to calm down. He feels like – not like he can _remember_ , exactly, more like there’s a wave of memory crashing against the wall. Nothing gets through, but the wall trembles under the pressure, and the shockwaves are spilling into him.

He realizes with a shock that Jared is holding his hand, long fingers pressed against the pulse in his wrist. Jared’s right up in his face again, looking up from below that stupid floppy hair with hazel eyes that are slanted and gold-flecked like a cat’s, genuine concern in every line of his body.

There is no reason for Dean to trust this guy. Danni is right. He should take off, go to the authorities, get these crazy fuckers arrested.

He already knows he’s not going to. He trusts Jared. He just doesn’t know why. 

Dean swallows and pulls his hand away. “Yeah. I just…” He presses the heel of one hand to his forehead. “Rough day, y’know?”

Jared laughs at that, sudden and expansive. “You were awesome!” 

The pressure in Dean’s head is receding. “Who were those guys?”

Jared sobers rapidly. “Bad news. For both of us, I think. We need to get out of town, now. We’ll have to ditch this car soon, too.” He pulls away, starts the ignition again. “I need to make a call.”

“I need more than that, Jared.”

“I’ll explain, I promise. I know I keep saying that, but I will. When we have time.”

“How are we gonna get out of town without the car? Airport?”

Jared gives him a surprised look. “Oh, man. Really?” He swings onto the ringroad. “You really have forgotten, haven’t you?”

Dean stares at his hands. He’s way out of his depth.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says. “I’m a bartender. I volunteer with kids. I have a girlfriend. I have a normal life. I don’t know what the hell just happened.” He swallows. “But I can’t remember anything before July 2011. And I’m getting the feeling my life was a lot different before that.”

  


Chris patches through on the most secure ComNet channel he can find, swearing steadily under his breath, left hand pressed against his ribs.

“Mary Queen of Scots,” she says, flipping her hair out of one eye.

“What. The. Fuck.” Chris says through gritted teeth.

She blinks, taken aback. “What? What happened?”

“I found him,” Chris spits out, “and while I was quietly breaking into the house, someone tried to _kill him!_ ”

She gasps, mouth rounding in a little ‘o’.

“Who else knew?” Chris demands. _“Who did you tell?”_

“Whoa, cowboy!” she says, holding up her hands. “Calm down there. We’re in this together.”

“That’s what I thought,” Chris growls. “So how the hell did someone else get involved?”

“How should I know?” she snaps. “Maybe you’re not as sneaky as you think you are!”

“Maybe _your_ boy can’t keep his mouth shut!” Chris retorts.

She narrows her eyes. “Jared would never kill him. You know that.”

“No shit,” says Chris. “He might have tipped off the wrong people, though.” She bites her lip at that.

“You said ‘tried’, so obviously they didn’t succeed,” she says. “You’ve got him?”

Chris holds up his bloody left hand.

“No, I don’t have him. He got away, and I got fucking _shot._ ”

_“What?”_

“Ah, it’s not so bad, just a graze, but it…”

“Fuck that! You let him get _away?_ Where the hell is he?!” 

“What part of ‘got away’ didn’t you understand?” Chris bitches. “I have no fucking idea. I’m heading for the airport but I’ve gotta get patched up first. You got anyone else you can pull in on this, do it.”

She stares at him for a moment, and then her lips twist into a bitter smile. “Yeah. _No_ problem.” She leans forward, dark eyes burning through the screen. “Just don’t come crying to me when Jeff rips you a new one.”

The connection cuts out abruptly. Chris resists the urge to slam his fist through it. He’s already bleeding enough for one day.

  


Jared parks the SUV on a small side street near the Westfall library. He cracks the windows a little, enough to let air circulate.

“There’s a water dish under your seat,” he tells Dean. Dean roots around and pulls it out. Jared leans across him and retrieves a bottle of water from the glove compartment. He also pulls out a ball cap and sunglasses, and slides them on.

“Okay, guys,” he says to Sadie and Harley, setting the water bowl on the floor of the back seat and filling it. “I’m gonna have to be away for a while. I’ll call Sandy to take care of you, okay?”

Harley snorts. Sadie whines a little and looks at him with soulful eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too,” Jared says. “I’ll come get you as soon as I can.”

His voice doesn’t waver, but Dean can hear echoes of worry and loss. He looks out the window as Jared ruffles the dogs behind their ears.

“Okay,” Jared says after a few moments. “Let’s go.”

He retrieves a backpack from the trunk and locks the vehicle. He slides the key into a magnetic holder; under pretext of tying his shoe, he sticks it in the passenger side wheel well.

As they walk away, Dean glances over his shoulder. Sadie isn’t visible; he guesses she’s curled up on the seat. Harley, however, is standing in the driver’s seat, paws on the wheel, watching Jared walk away. Jared doesn’t look back.

There’s a public ComNet point in the corner of the library complex. Jared pulls the ball cap down a bit further as they approach.

Dean watches his fingers move as he logs in and sets up a call, audio request only.

“Cupcake1346?” he says. “Really?”

“What?” Jared says. “It’s hard to come up with new names all the time. Besides, the point is to _not_ sound like me.”

Dean waits a beat and says, “You know, I also got the password.”

He watches the flush rising up the back of Jared’s neck and can’t help grinning.

“Yeah, fine, you’re a rock star,” Jared mutters. “They’re hard to think up too, you know. Okay. Here we go.”

He takes off his watch and hands it to Dean. 

“I’ll have a little over sixty seconds before they’ll know which quadrant of the city we’re in. I can stretch to ninety before they get within a few blocks, but I’d rather not push our luck, so let me know when we get to fifty seconds.”

Dean blinks at him. “I thought you were calling one of your friends?”

“Yeah,” Jared says, “and we’re real paranoid.”

Dean shakes his head. “Man.”

“It’s not – Sandy’s absolutely cool. It’s policy, though. They’ll track all incoming calls, unless it’s from one of our own phones. And those all have GPS anyway.”

Dean frowns. “Sounds like a lot of wasted effort.”

“Maybe,” says Jared, “but sometimes, if you wait until you know it’s a call you need to trace? It’s too late.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Yeah, okay. I’m ready.”

Jared hits connect.

He signals Dean and starts talking rapidly.

“Sandy? It’s me… No. Yeah, I found her, but listen… No, I’m not. I need to head out for a bit, I can’t explain it right now. I need your help… No, no, I’m not hurt. I need you to take care of the dogs for me.”

He takes a breath. Dean can hear increasingly rapid, concerned chatter sounding tinny from the speaker.

“I’m still in San Antonio but I have to leave right now and I can’t take them with me. I’m leaving the car, too… Sandy, please just listen. I’ve left them in the car, and I need someone to come and pick them up. The keys are behind the front wheel.”

He glances at Dean. Dean gestures, _go on._

“I dunno. Take ‘em to a shelter, take ‘em to my place, whatever. Don’t know how long I’ll be, though.” Jared swallows. “It might be a while.”

There’s real pain in his face. He obviously adores these dogs. Dean is distracted by it, almost misses the second hand sweeping past the fifty-second mark. He catches it just in time and grabs Jared’s elbow, looking panicked.

Sandy is still talking but Jared cuts in abruptly. “Sorry Sandy, time’s up. I’d say don’t tell Jeff, but I know you’ll have to. I really will explain this. I just need a head start. Love you, babe.”

He cuts the connection and it’s like a switch flips in him too: his face shutters, his stance tenses. “Clock’s ticking. Time to go.”

“Where?” Dean says stupidly.

“Out of here,” Jared says. “Until I can figure out what the hell’s going on.”

The last few words drift back over his shoulder; he’s already walking away fast – though not too fast, not suspiciously fast – and Dean has to chase after him.

“Hang on. How’s Sandy gonna find the car? You just made sure she didn’t know where we are!”

“Did you see the street we parked on?” Jared says. “Nice, quiet, neighborly? I give it an hour, tops, before someone’s gonna call the cops and report some jerk left his dogs in the truck.”

Dean frowns, still keeping pace. “So, what, you have a spy in the police station?”

“Don’t have to,” Jared says, “we just monitor their internal ComNet feed.”

“Uh,” Dean says, “right,” and demands of his subconscious just what the fuck it thinks it’s doing, getting him mixed up in this. No response. Dean imagines it sitting around whistling and ignoring him.

“I have a really annoying subconscious,” he says.

This actually makes Jared break stride. And laugh.

He has a nice laugh.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Jared says. “Anyway, Sandy will be on it. There’s someone else down here, they’ll get the truck.” A muscle clenches in his jaw. “Whatever they decide about me, they’ll treat the dogs well.”

“What do you mean, decide about you? I thought they were on your side,” Dean says. “Your people aren’t sure about you? This is not sounding like a good situation to me.”

“It isn’t,” Jared says. “One reason they’ll be annoyed with me right now is that I should be bringing you in.”

“I thought you were,” Dean says, stopping abruptly. Something crashes against the back of his legs. “Ow, fuck!” 

A woman glares and maneuvers around him, pushing a contraption that looks more suited to off-roading than carrying a baby. Jared jumps back before she runs over his toes.

“I can’t. Not right now.”

Dean’s right hand clenches into a fist. He has no doubt he’d know where and how hard to hit. “You _lied_ to me?”

“No!” Jared holds up his hands. “I swear. I will get you to safety, and I will figure out what the hell is going on. But we can’t – I can’t take you to headquarters right now. I was going to, I came to your house planning to talk to you, and then…”

He swallows. “I recognized one of the guys there.”

Dean stares. “You mean…one of _your_ guys?”

Jared shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t think he saw me, though.”

“So what, you’re saying he’s some kind of double agent, or something?”

“I have no idea,” Jared says. “Yesterday, he was chewing me out for not taking care of you. Today, he’s shooting at you? I don’t know what’s up with that.”

“Yesterday?” Dean glares. “So this is your fault?”

Jared hisses in a breath. “God. _No._ ” He makes another turn and stops outside a Salvation Army thrift store. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”

Dean stares at the shop, then at Jared. “Dude. No.”

Jared raises his eyebrows. “ _Dude,_ ” he mimics, “you need a jacket. Sunglasses. Maybe a shirt that actually fits your petite size. You’ve got five minutes. Move.”

Dean flips him off, but follows him inside anyway.

  


“They’ll be watching the airport,” Jared explains. “Trucks taking this route, they’re probably heading northwest out of the city.”

Jensen is sucking in deep breaths of air and glaring at him. Jared frowns. It’s not his fault Jensen doesn’t remember how to land properly.

“You didn’t have to push me,” Jensen says.

“The light turned green!” Jared says. “That means go! You weren’t climbing fast enough.”

“I didn’t realize your great escape involved stowing away on a transport truck stopped at a red light!” Jensen grumbles. “You actually _planned_ this?”

“Gen would say that the plan evolves in a dynamic fashion so as to constantly integrate new information into an up-to-date model,” Jared says. “Which means I make it up as I go along.” 

Jensen snorts. “That working out for you?”

Jared grins. “I’m still alive.”

“In a grocery truck, probably about to get bitten by a poisonous spider, on the run from fuck knows who – which may or may not include your own people – and saddled with me.”

Jared shrugs. “So it’s not all bad.”

Jensen opens his mouth, closes it again, and goes slightly pink. It sets off his freckles nicely.

Jared grins again. He’s kind of enjoying this new Jensen.

“What next?” Jensen says. “Where are we headed?”

“It depends on where we are when we get there,” Jared explains. “Your guess is as good as mine where we’re gonna stop. I’m hoping we make it pretty far north. The trucking companies don’t like going along the Mexico border, they lose too much to piracy. So they’ll probably head north first, then across to the west.”

He chews his lip. “I figure we should head for Cali,” he says. “The Free State has its problems, but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I need some distance till I can figure out what all the shooting was about and who’s playing.”

“How the hell do you plan to get across the border?” Jensen says. 

Jared just laughs. Yeah, Cali’s been a lot more cautious with its border since that fanatic from Utah set off a dirty bomb in SanFran, but seriously?

“ _Not_ gonna be a problem,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” Jensen says, clearly unconvinced.

“Trust me,” Jared says cheerfully. “I do this for a living. Learned from the best.”

“Great,” Jensen says. “How come I get stuck with you, and not the best?”

Jared opens his mouth, then hesitates.

Jensen’s been happy. He – _Dean_ – had a job, a girlfriend, a good life. Jared is about to tear that all down.

He looks up, feeling his face pull into taut, tense lines.

“What?” Jensen laughs uneasily. “Hey, don’t get upset. I’m joking, man.”

Jared wants to grin too, laugh it off, and avoid the discussion he knows he has to have. Instead, he just stares, caught in the clear intense green of Jensen’s eyes. Past and present jumble and war in his mind. 

Jensen cocks his head to one side. “It’s a good question, though. Why _am_ I stuck with you?”

Jared swallows.

“You said you’d explain,” Jensen says. “So yeah, I want to know. Not just why _you._ All of it. What the hell happened back at the house, who those guys were.” He frowns. “Why you threw my phone away. Jerk.”

There’s no way to undo the events of today, no way that Dean can go home again. Jared’s known that since the first shot splintered glass.

At least they’ve got a long ride ahead of them, time for the telling.

He laces his fingers around his knees.

“I’m the best now,” he says, “since you disappeared. You taught me everything I know.”

  


Jensen is a coiled spring, tightly wound, unmoving.

Jared wants to make things better. Time was, he would have reached out, rubbed Jensen’s shoulders, wrapped an arm around him until the tight line of Jensen’s jaw softened and the taut line of his spine melted against Jared’s chest.

Times change. All Jared can offer now are words. Jensen values truth. That hasn’t changed.

“Your name is Jensen Ross Ackles,” Jared says. “You’re thirty-seven and you were born in Dallas. You have an older brother somewhere up in the New Democratic Union and a younger sister. I’m not sure where she is right now.” He swallows; he really should have kept better track of Mackenzie but in the months after Megan’s death, he hadn’t paid attention to a lot of things. “Your parents are dead. I’m sorry.”

Jensen takes a slow, deep breath. “It’s – it’s okay.” He lets out a small bitter laugh. “How can I miss ‘em? It’s not like I remembered them anyway.” He scrubs his hands through his hair. “Go on. I want to know.”

“You were...” Jared snorts in humorless laughter too. “I always feel so dumb saying it. You were a secret agent. I’m one too. We…”

_It’s complicated._

“We used to work together. This guy, Jeff, he runs his own show. We do shit for the government, mostly, but we aren’t the government. Back when you were with us, we _definitely_ weren’t.” He coughs. “You’re, uh. You probably had something to do with that. You disappeared about six months before the coup, but I’m pretty sure you were involved, set some stuff in motion. I wasn’t so deep in then – didn’t know any details, Jeff tells us what he thinks we need to know – but something you said, I kind of figured.” 

“I told you secret shit?” Jensen looks annoyed with himself. “Sounds like I was a lousy agent.”

“You were the best,” Jared says simply.

There’s a pause. Jared hears the words hang in the air. He’d meant to be sincere. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so… smitten.

Jensen clears his throat. 

“So, uh,” Jared says. “You died. We all thought you died. Jeff said you were on assignment in San Antonio at the time. It was July 2011.”

“The timing fits,” Jensen says hoarsely.

“It was a bad month,” Jared says. “A lot of unrest. Bombings. Protests. You hadn’t been heard from in a couple of days, and then. I heard you were dead.” He swallows, hard. “We looked. A lot. You’d gone into this building, and then it was a pile of rubble on fire, and you hadn’t come out.”

“July fits,” Jensen repeats. “But the place is wrong. I was in Houston. At least, I woke up in Houston, in a hospital.”

Jared wrinkles his nose. “And they didn’t ID you?”

“The hospital was pretty overwhelmed around that time,” Jensen says. “Remember when Continental 661 crashed? There were a ton of casualties. I wasn’t the only one to come in unconscious, with no memory and no ID. They patched me up and got me out as fast as they could. One of the social workers organized a sort of half-way house for me. I got a job the day I got out, got myself an apartment within the week, and just…kept my head down. Didn’t tell them where I’d moved to.” 

He looks up at the sky, where faint wisps of cloud mar the brilliant blue. “I assumed I’d been on that plane. The hospital, though, they got a passenger list, names and photos. The police came in matching people up, patients, the guys in the morgue. I wasn’t on the list.”

“That was a flight from San Antonio to Houston, right?” Jared frowns. “You might still have been on the plane. We’re good at that sort of thing.”

Jensen raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, well. I didn’t know that I knew how to do shit like that, so I figured something else had happened to me, and I just got lumped into the mess.” He purses his lips, blows out air. “I looked through the news, did a little hunting on the ‘net. Missing person reports and things like that. Never found anything that looked like me. There were a couple of things I wondered about… The hospital apparently took a couple of knives off me. I discovered early on I knew how to fight. And pick locks.”

“You taught me a lot,” Jared says.

Jensen flashes him a smile, quicksilver, bright and disappearing. “Yeah, well. I thought maybe I’d been a criminal or something. So I didn’t want to make too much fuss, go to the police or anything. Nobody seemed to miss me.”

Jared is a little afraid of what he might say if he tries to say anything. He thinks, fuck it, and reaches over to scoop Jensen into a tight one-armed hug instead. Jensen stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into it, knocking his knee against Jared’s. 

Eventually Jared reluctantly lets go. “You always had good instincts. I guess they kept on working. You were hiding, and we weren’t exactly putting out personal ads looking for you.” He frowns. “I’m still surprised Harley didn’t get your trail away from the building. Or out of the city, for that matter.”

Jensen shrugs. “I think my shoes were on fire. I bet the stink of melting rubber can mask a lot.” He grimaces. “I’m not sure how I got out of the city, but I might have taken to the river at some point. That would have given him trouble too.”

“Harley’s braver than Sadie, but he’s not as sensitive,” Jared says. “He’s a great dog, though. He found you, in the end.”

Jensen blinks. “Really?”

“We were walking past the market yesterday,” Jared explains. “He picked up your trail.”

“Four years later and he remembered?” Jensen says incredulously. “That’s kind of amazing.” He gives Jared a self-deprecating smile. “Hell, _I_ don’t remember shit from back then. I mean, I don’t even remember _you._ You strike me as pretty memorable.”

Jared grits his teeth and tries not to blush. “Yeah, well. I think I can forgive you. You forgot your own name. That’s pretty impressive.” He cocks his head. “How’d you end up named Dean? You pick it yourself?”

“One of the nurses called me that,” Jensen says. “After some TV show character she liked. It was just meant as a nickname until they ID’d me, but then I took off and they never did... I needed a name, and it seemed as good as any.” 

He touches his fist to his mouth and closes his eyes briefly. “Danni laughed and laughed when I introduced myself. It was the first time I felt like – maybe that could be me.”

Jared grits his teeth. He’s well aware it’s never a good idea to tell a man the truth about the one he loves, but…

“I’m pretty sure Danni knew _exactly_ who you were,” he tells Jensen.

Jensen’s shocked. He hides it well, but Jared can see it in the faintest widening around his eyes, tension in the set of his shoulders. Jensen’s mind may be different but his body’s the same, and Jared knows that body and its tells.

“Danneel Harris works for the Republic. She was fairly low-level security back then, so she survived the change-over. She got promoted fast under the new government, even had her own team. I ran into her a few times back then. Nothing nasty,” he reassures Jensen, “we were mostly on the same side. Then, a couple of years ago, she just quit.”

“Only she didn’t,” Jensen says, picking at a thread in the knee of his jeans.

“No,” Jared says. “I don’t think so.”

Jensen’s nodding slightly as his thoughts follow the same track Jared’s had. “She what, said she’d had enough? Wanted to go back to school? Got tired of danger? Met some guy?”

“More or less.”

The sun glints off Jensen’s wayward, uncombed hair. Jared wants to run his fingers through it. He’s pretty sure that would be inappropriate.

“That’s when I – we – ” Jensen breaks off, digs the heel of one hand into his eye. “She came to keep an eye on me.”

“Yeah,” says Jared. “I have no idea how she found you. It might have been chance, but I don’t think so. I think someone knew you were alive.”

“Someone in the Republic.” Jensen frowns. “But nobody on our side knew.”

“I fucking well hope not,” says Jared grimly, “because if someone knew where you were and didn’t tell me, I am going to rip their head off next chance I get.”

Jensen looks taken aback by Jared’s ferocity.

“We’re _friends,_ ” Jared says, and it feels completely inadequate to describe what Jensen meant to him. “I looked for you for _months._ ”

He stares at the crate by his feet. He can feel Jensen’s gaze steady on the back of his neck.

“She works for the hospital administration,” Jensen says. “I volunteer there sometimes, reading books to kids. One day I finished a story and looked up and there she was, standing in the doorway. Beautiful, clever, didn’t care that I worked in a bar and didn’t have the first goddamn clue what my real name was. I fucking worshiped her.”

The pain in his voice is real and raw. Jared can’t look up.

“She said she thought it would be good for me to remember, that it would help. We went places, saw shrinks. I thought she just wanted to help me, I never thought…. But I couldn’t – it hurt, it was like this massive pressure any time I tried – there’s still a block there. You’re telling me all this and I still – I don’t _remember_ it. Some things feel familiar.” He swallows. “You feel familiar.”

Jared flushes hot at those words, even though Jensen doesn’t – can’t – mean what Jared would like him to. Jensen – _Dean_ – has a girlfriend. Admittedly, a lying manipulative bitch of a girlfriend, but still. 

“The thing I can’t figure out,” he says, trying to make his tone light, “is why you’re still alive.”

Jensen blinks. “Because I’m awesome? Because you’re awesome?”

“Today, yeah,” Jared says. “But obviously some people want you dead. And the Republic’s been watching you for at least two years, and trying to get your memory back. It can’t be because you knew some secret of theirs. They’d have killed you, not tried to get you to remember. You must have something they want.”

“I don’t know,” Jensen says, almost inaudibly. “I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. 

Jared’s hand strokes up and down his arm. “It’s okay. There’s time. Get some rest, you look like hell.”

The road runs smooth beneath them, and Jensen is sleepy and pliant under his touch. Jared pulls his hand back. Things are different now.

He doesn’t mean to sleep, but he does.

  


Dean wakes up slowly. The sun is warm on his face. There’s a body warm at his back, hair tickling his neck. All’s right with the world.

“G’morning,” he mumbles.

The sleepy, protesting grunt from behind him is two octaves lower than Danni’s, and as he gets closer to consciousness, he realizes the arm slung across his stomach is a lot heavier than hers. Also, the bed is a helluva lot harder than he remembers.

He opens his eyes. The sun is setting, not rising. He’s in the back of an open transport truck, there are huge cardboard boxes all around him, and he’s being spooned by Jared.

For some reason, neither his brain nor body can get particularly worried about this unusual turn of events. In fact, it seems his body is more than okay with it.

He gives his subconscious a stern, questioning glare. It looks innocently blank and refuses to divulge any information whatsoever. Fucking annoying subconscious.

“Fine,” Dean mutters, adjusting himself and trying to extricate himself from Jared, who would no doubt be mortified to wake up and find himself snuggling Dean – _Jensen._

His name is Jensen. It’s an odd name. Not one of the many he’d tried on for size.

He thought it would be different, the moment when he knew his true name. It feels – not wrong, exactly, but it isn’t the big revelation he was hoping for. It hasn’t brought an avalanche of memory; it hasn’t magically made everything better. He pokes at it, trying to elicit something more.

Jared stirs behind him, and says, “Jensen,” voice full of sleep and gravel.

Jensen’s whole body flushes hot, he can barely breathe, and oh yeah. That’s how his name ought to sound.

“Jared,” he croaks.

Jared startles awake, flailing and letting go of Jensen.

“What time is it?” Jensen says.

“Uh,” Jared says, still looking dazed. “Almost eight. We must be over the Texas border by now.”

“Cool,” Jensen says. “I’m starving. Think there’s anything to eat around here?” 

Jensen’s busy investigating the boxes when Jared whoops with delight.

“We just passed Roswell. I bet we’re going all the way to Albuquerque!” he says happily. “Awesome. We can hole up with Chad.”

“Who?”

“Chad’s a friend from way back,” Jared says. “Good guy. He used to work for Jeff too.”

His grin loses half its wattage as something obviously occurs to him.

“What?” Jensen says.

“Huh?” Jared says vaguely. “Nothing.”

“I’m the one who was being shot at,” Jensen says. “I think I qualify for ‘need-to-know’ status.”

“Nah, really,” Jared says. “Just – Chad’s an acquired taste. But he’ll help us, and he won’t sell us out. And I don’t know anyone else safe in the area.”

He looks hopefully at Jensen and that damn hair is falling in his eyes again. Jensen’s hand twitches with a sudden impulse to reach out and push it back.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, for lack of anything better – not like he has anything to contribute to their survival as fugitives – and he feels a sudden stupid exhilaration slam into his gut as Jared smiles big and wide, like the sun really did just come up.

Damn.

He’d known he didn’t know things about himself. He hadn’t realized how deep that might go.

Fucking annoying and possibly at-least-partly-gay subconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

  


Jared has been trying to explain Chad to Jensen. Chad is difficult to explain.

“So why’d he quit your little club?”

Jared laughs. “Chad and Jeff, man, they… God, they were never gonna work out. Jeff’s all about order and discipline, and Chad fucking _hates_ being told what to do. He used to be our main IT and tech guy, and he’d pull the stupidest shit just to piss off Jeff.”

He stretches, hearing his shoulder crack. Old age, if he makes it there, is gonna suck, what with all the crap he puts his body through.

“The last prank he pulled there, he replaced Jeff’s electronic signature file with the Miss October centerfold. Jeff sent emails to at least three major government officials before he noticed. Katie and I had a bet on whether Chad would actually survive.”

“Who won?” Jensen inquires.

“I did, of course.” Jared’s lips quirk. “Actually, I only bet in his favor because friends gotta stick by each other. I thought Jeff was going to drop him off a tall building.”

“I’m getting less enthused about your plan to trust our lives to this guy.”

“No way, man,” Jared says, “he’s cool. And he likes you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

Jared winces. “Right. I mean, the old you. He liked you. Back then.”

There’s a pause, and Jensen raises an eyebrow. “ _Liked_ me?”

Jared gapes a moment, then bursts out laughing again. “God, no. Chad is all about the ladies.”

He sobers, looks at Jensen, looks back down at his hands.

“So that. Would… You okay with that?”

“What?”

“A guy. Uh. Liking other guys.”

Jensen shrugs. “I guess. Whatever. Don’t get why everyone makes such a fuss.”

There’s something a little off in the way he says it, some tension hinted at in the stillness of his hands and the line at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Jared says, and doesn’t pursue it. “Found anything edible yet?”

Jensen grins and brandishes a box of cereal.

“I bow to your foraging skills,” Jared says, and spends the next ten minutes catching brown sugar Mini Wheats in his mouth. Jensen lobs them ever higher, silhouetted against the sunset burning up the horizon, and Jared laughs and kicks out at him and tries to brand every single detail into his mind because memory is fragile but sometimes that’s all you get.

 

  


Jensen doesn’t remember falling asleep again, but he wakes up to Jared shaking his shoulder. The truck is pulling into a loading zone behind a large warehouse. He’s glad for his Salvation Army jacket after all; it had gotten cool once the sun went down.

“They might not unload till morning,” Jared whispers, “but it’s an open truck, I wouldn’t count on it. Let’s go.”

Jensen turns for the back of the truck but Jared tugs his elbow, shaking his head and gesturing forward. Jensen’s puzzled a moment until the truck comes to a halt and starts reversing, rear end heading for the brightly lit loading dock. They rapidly make their way up front just behind the passenger side of the cab, staying out of sight behind a single layer of crates, and climb the side slats. When the truck stops, it’s the work of a moment to swing over the side and down to the ground, and move away into the shadows.

The next street over, there’s a late-night pizza place, a tattoo parlor, and a bar.

“You look too good for this neighborhood,” Jared says critically, as they turn the corner. He takes off the ball cap and shoves it crookedly on Jensen’s head.

“Ugh, cooties,” Jensen says. Jared elbows him.

“Go order us some pizza,” he says, and hands Jensen a twenty. “I’m’a call Chad, get him to pick us up.”

“I thought you couldn’t turn on your phone?” Jensen says.

“That’s why I’m going to the bar,” Jared says, and winks at him.

The pizza smells incredible, although Jensen has serious doubts about the kitchen’s adherence to the Food Handling Safety Code. He’s hungry enough that he doesn’t care; he’s already eaten most of his first slice before Jared slides into the booth.

“You get Chad?” Jensen says.

“Yup,” Jared says with a shit-eating grin, “ _and_ the bartender’s number.” He tosses it to Jensen. “Here, you can have it.”

“Thanks, man,” Jensen says dryly. “Nice to know you’re looking out for me.”

“Eat up,” Jared says, “we got ten minutes.”

Nine minutes and forty-five seconds later, the most ridiculous car Jensen has ever seen slides up to the curb outside. Jared grabs the last slice of pizza, rolls it up and stuffs the end in his mouth. “Mmph.”

“I can tell he made a great secret agent,” Jensen mutters, as they walk out to the cherry-red, pimped-out monster.

“People remember the car, not the person,” Jared says mildly, and leans in the open passenger side window. “Hey Chad. You’re a life saver.”

“No shit,” says the scruffy blond behind the wheel. “Get in, you morons. Cops’ll be here soon.”

“I’m surprised they don’t automatically trail you the minute you leave home,” Jensen says, sliding into the back.

“Pleasant as ever, Ackles,” Chad says. “Least I don’t drive a pussy piece of shit like your Prius.”

“That’s Danni’s car!” Jensen blanches. “Shit. Tell me I didn’t own a Prius? I mean, before?”

“Quit taunting the guy with no memory,” Jared says, smacking Chad across the back of the head. “Don’t worry, Jensen. You had a perfectly manly truck.”

“Manly?” Chad snorts. “It ran on fucking _biofuel._ ”

“Ecologically friendly isn’t _unmanly,_ ” Jared says. “It just means he wasn’t a selfish asshole.”

Chad opens his mouth to say something, but Jared promptly shoves the last of the pizza in Chad’s mouth, effectively suffocating his reply.

Jensen leans back, stretches his arms along the back of the seat, and listens to the sound of Jared’s voice, more than the actual words, as he fills Chad in on the past – ten hours. Holy shit. Has he really only known Jared under half a day? It feels longer.

It’s not surprising, maybe, that Jared feels familiar. They apparently knew each other, they worked together, and even if Jensen doesn’t remember being friends with Jared, clearly his subconscious is comfortable with it.

This doesn’t really explain why his subconscious is comfortable with Jared spooning him and kind of wishes it would happen again, but Jensen isn’t up to thinking about that right now, even if his subconscious were the cooperative type. He lets himself drift, listening to Jared and feeling startlingly content.

 

  


Chad waves them into his one bedroom apartment.

“You two lovebirds can have the sofa bed.”

Jensen raises his eyebrows and hangs his jacket on the back of a chair. “No problem. Long as Sasquatch doesn’t steal all the blankets.”

“Jensen, can you excuse us a moment?” Jared says, fixed smile in place, and herds Chad into the kitchenette. Jensen blinks as the door closes firmly behind them

“…doesn’t know…”

“…just pathetic, man.”

“You can’t…”

“…not giving up my…”

“…don’t have to – Chad, please just… don’t, okay?”

The kitchen door swings open. Jared comes out, gives Jensen a horribly strained smile, and heads down the hall to what is presumably the bathroom.

Chad looks at Jensen. Jensen looks at Chad.

“You be nice to my boy,” Chad says finally, “he’s been through a lot of shit the last few years. And he’s really gone and stuck his neck out for you now. So don’t fuck up.”

“Thanks for putting us up,” Jensen says. “I appreciate it.”

“Whatever, Ackles,” Chad says. “I never liked you.”

“I suspect it was mutual,” Jensen says.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Chad says.

“I really don’t,” Jensen says.

Chad nods like he’s gonna say something else, but Jared comes back down the hall and the moment’s gone.

“Sleep well,” Chad says. Jensen doesn’t miss the mocking note in his voice or the way Jared flinches, but he doesn’t know what to make of it, so he busies himself pulling out the sofa bed.

Jared takes off his jacket and T-shirt, starts unbuttoning his jeans, and hesitates.

“Sorry about Chad,” he says, “but it’s the best I could do.”

Jensen shrugs, pulling off his own clothes. “Hey, it’s your show. You’re doing pretty good so far.”

He rolls himself up in a blanket and flops down onto the mattress. It’s lumpy and sags in the middle and he’s out before he knows it. He’s only vaguely aware of Jared turning out the lights, and the dip in the bed as Jared’s weight joins his.

He wakes up snuggled up to Jared once again, but at least this time he can blame the bed.

Chad’s idea of breakfast is cereal that’s mostly sugar and day-glo colors. Jared eats three bowlfuls. Jensen makes do with coffee.

“So what now?” Chad says. “You can’t have my car.”

“Airport,” Jared says. “But it’ll be watched.”

“Really?” Jensen asks. “You think they followed us?”

Jared shrugs. “Not directly. But they didn’t catch us going through the San Antonio airport, and they’ll have been searching the city. Jeff’ll have picked up the SUV already. We might have got past them at the airport, or holed up in town somewhere, but if I were in their place? I’d assume the target left by road. It’s pretty easy to work out the radius, places we could be in by now. It’ll be harder for them to cover all the possible ground. But let’s face it, this is an obvious spot to scope out.”

He pours himself some more cereal. “Plus, we got more to worry about than Jeff’s crew.” His voice drops apologetically. “I can’t figure out what the Republic wants you for, or why they’d get Jeff to go after you after Danni put all that time in with you. But we’ve probably got the Republic on our tail as well.”

“So, odds are good someone’s in that airport,” Jensen says.

“Yeah,” Jared admits. “But we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover, and air’s the best way to go.” He turns to Chad. “Can you get us in?”

Chad looks affronted. “Of course I can. Just ‘cause I don’t work for the man, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything.”

Jared winces and glances at Jensen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chad says. “He’s not made of glass, you know.”

He stands and heads for the door. “Give me half an hour. I’ll borrow Sophia’s car. If you need to make any calls, there’s a link in my bedroom and it’s permanently scrambled.”

“Your brain is permanently scrambled,” Jared says, but he’s smiling.

Jensen finds himself smiling too.

 

  
[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/30757721@N00/4784946408/)   


Chad does in fact turn out to be surprisingly good at this sort of thing.

He parks Sophia’s boring, indeterminate car outside the airport fence, disables a small section, and cuts through it in under three minutes. There’s a baggage cart on the far side.

“Here you go,” he says, passing Jensen an official-looking hat. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says awkwardly.

“I owe you one,” Jared says, ducking under a tarp on the back of the cart.

“No shit,” Chad says. “Don’t get caught.”

At first, Jensen tries not to drive too fast, afraid of attracting attention. He soon figures out that in fact, driving his usual reckless speed is the best way to blend in.

“That one,” Jared hisses, “to the left. That’s the gate for Phoenix. It leaves in ten minutes.”

They’re in luck. Most of the baggage carts are already unloaded, their handlers driving away. Jensen pulls up on the far side. They wait until a shuttle bus passes by, then dash over beneath the plane.

The cargo hatch uses the standard maglock. It only takes Jared three seconds to disable it.

“You have a sonic screwdriver?” Jensen says incredulously.

Jared laughs. “Nah. It’s a combination RFID jammer and mini EM pulse generator. Something Gen cooked up. But man, she’s gonna love it that you called it that.”

There’s a splutter, a whir, and the engines roar to life.

“Jesus _fuck!_ ” Jared yells. “Since when do planes leave _ahead_ of schedule?”

He cups his hands and motions to Jensen, who catches on fast and sets his foot in them. Jared hoists Jensen up on his shoulders, and Jensen shoves hard against the hatch, sliding it open enough that they can get in.

The engine noise is deafening. Jensen calls something down to him but Jared can’t make out the words.

Jensen catches the edge of the cargo bay. He pulls himself up slightly, getting his elbows on the side of the hatch. Jared can feel him tense, preparing to swing up, when the plane starts to move.

Jensen flails, lower body swinging free, and his foot catches Jared on the shoulder, knocking him back. Jared keeps his balance and staggers forward again, reaching up to try and help Jensen, but the plane is moving back fast, reversing away from the gate.

Jensen swings himself fully into the cargo bay, turns and leans out. He’s lying flat, one hand gripping the hatch, one extended to Jared.

The plane slows to a halt. The wheels rotate as it prepares to turn and taxi forward out on to the runway. Jared reaches up, open hand locking around Jensen’s wrist.

“I’m heavier than you!” he shouts, against the engines and the wind.

“My feet are anchored!” Jensen yells back. “Can you jump?”

The plane begins to move. Jared starts running, gauges speed and elevation, and leaps, letting Jensen pull him up as well. His free hand grabs the edge of the hatch.

The ground is dropping away from beneath his feet as the aircraft starts to rise.

There’s a flicker in the corner of his vision. He turns his head slightly, just in time to have the box sliding past Jensen fall through the hatch and hit him between the eyes.

It knocks him sideways. His hands are torn free. He hears a cry. He thinks it’s him, but then he hits the landing gear, hard. The breath is knocked out of him, but he can still hear frantic yelling. It must be Jensen. God. He hopes Jensen doesn’t do anything stupid.

He’s sliding, falling again, and he grabs on with both hands, grips the metal strut as hard as he can. His stomach muscles scream at him as he tries to keep his legs up, away from the still-spinning wheel. He wants to call out to Jensen, tell him he’s okay, tell him to shut the hatch, but he can’t seem to marshal the breath.

He pulls himself up, hand over hand, and gets his feet onto the struts. Just in time: there’s a squeal of metal and loud whirring noise as the landing gear starts to retract. Jared scrambles around the folding struts, yanks his left foot up just in time to avoid it being crushed.

He can’t hear anything anymore, over the rushing air, engines and motors and gears. He looks to where Jensen is, framed wide-eyed and horrified in the hatch, and risks letting go with one hand to give the universal signal for ‘okay’. He wishes there were a universal signal for ‘quit worrying about me and close the fucking hatch before you fall out’.

He hopes Jensen saw him, but there’s no time for anything more. The wheels fold up past the edge of metal and the panels swing into place beneath him.

“See you on the other side,” he mutters. He’s glad he called ahead to Jim. There will be someone to watch out for Jensen, if he doesn’t make it.

He still has his rope. It’s hard work to get it out from beneath his shirt, in the confined space, and the temperature is dropping fast already, but he pulls out enough to lash around the struts. He leaves the rest looped around his waist, tied securely but not too tightly. This isn’t a long flight, they won’t be going too high, but it’s still very easy to get disoriented or weakened at altitude.

Stowing away on landing gear is tricky business. If you don’t freeze, or die from oxygen deprivation, you risk being fried by the heat of the engines. You can fall to your death when you black-out at high altitudes, or when the landing gear deploys with no warning. Odds of survival are maybe twenty percent at best.

Jared reflects that’s actually better odds than various other stupid things he’s done, and settles in to enjoy the flight. At least there won’t be any stupid, stale rice snacks.

 

  


Jensen spends the flight alternately worrying about and cursing Jared. The cargo hold gets bone-chillingly cold, but he knows it’s nothing like what Jared must be experiencing.

After maybe a quarter of an hour, he opens a couple of suitcases and rifles through them. He finds a nice knitted sweater and windproof jacket in his size and puts them on.

It takes him most of the rest of the flight to find something that might have a hope of fitting Jared. He pulls it over his own stolen layers, and refuses to think about the possibility that Jared might not be around to make use of it. The sickening lurch in his stomach when the landing gear deploys isn’t due to the plane’s movement, though.

Two days ago he didn’t know Jared existed. Now, he feels like throwing up at the idea that Jared might stop existing.

He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, thinks about blue sky and warm sun and Jared’s wide smile, and mentally rehearses what he’s going to do when the plane stops.

 

  


Jared comes to slowly. There’s a lot of noise, and his hands hurt.

Someone is yelling in his ear. He’s _cold._

“Jared! Jared, can you hear me? Wake up. We have to get out of here!”

It’s Jensen. Jensen is untying the rope.

Jared wiggles his feet experimentally. They’re still attached.

Jensen pulls at his shoulders and Jared falls.

“Shit!” he hears Jensen say from somewhere underneath him.

He staggers to his feet. At least, he thinks he does. His feet are still uncertain as to where they are, but his head seems to be at its usual height, so he’s probably standing.

“Here.” Jared’s arm is being looped over Jensen’s shoulder. “You have to move, Jared, fast as you can, it’s not far, okay? Just trust me.”

Jared does. He puts one foot in front of the other. There’s wire in front of him. Then there isn’t. He falls through. There’s a truck.

It’s warm in the back, but Jared’s so cold. There are blankets, but they aren’t enough.

“He’s not shivering,” Jensen’s voice says, and another voice answers, gruff and worried.

Then there’s warmth next to him, arms around him, and he lets himself sleep because he knows he’s safe.

 

  


When Jared wakes up again, his head is considerably clearer. He’s rolled up in blankets and lying on an ancient sofa next to a woodstove that is putting out ridiculous amounts of heat, especially considering it’s June in Phoenix.

He sits up and realizes he’s naked under the blankets.

“Skin to skin works best,” Jensen says apologetically from behind him. “You feeling okay?”

Jared’s not sure he trusts himself to answer. Apparently he was naked, with Jensen, and it’s his turn to not remember anything. Great.

“Air’s the best way to go, huh?” Jensen says acerbically. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking scare me like that again.”

Jared doesn’t trust his voice, just leaps up and scoops him into a full-body hug. One that perhaps goes on a little too long, because Jensen has to catch his breath when Jared finally lets him go.

“Clothes,” Jensen says hoarsely, and waves at the coffee table before fleeing the room.

Jared pulls on the sweatpants and T-shirt lying there and follows him. He finds Jensen and Jim both in Jim’s study. Jensen is nose deep in a mug of coffee. There’s a plate of toast next to him, balanced precariously on one of the many stacks of books littering the floor.

“You’re late,” says Jim, “the coffee’s all gone.”

“Your coffee’s awful anyway,” Jared says, “only an addict like Jensen would drink it.”

“How…” Jensen starts, and then desists. “Right.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Jared says simply. “I owe you.”

“Trust you to screw up something that simple,” Jim says. “You didn’t say you were planning to travel _outside_ the plane.”

“I didn’t expect to,” Jared says.

“Place was busy,” Jim says. “Republic was there, and some others I didn’t recognize. Jensen did well, though.”

Jared smiles. “Told you.”

Jim snorts. “You were lucky. They were mostly paying attention to another plane came in right before you, had some Greens on it. Don’t think you’re likely to get out that way again.”

“So we drive,” Jared says.

“Nope,” Jim says. “Security’s been all over that too.”

“So what do you suggest?” Jensen says. “I’m not walking all the way to California.”

“Boat.”

“What?” Jared says incredulously.

Jim reaches for one of the many books stacked on the table. There’s a faded yellow bookmark in it; he flips it open and traces a finger across the map. “The Gila’s pretty much the straightest route there is to Cali. Dumps into the Colorado River at Yuma. Get out the far side of the river, you’re on Free State soil.”

Jared frowns. “I didn’t think that stretch of the river was navigable.”

“Wasn’t,” Jim says. “She used to be pretty much dry from Phoenix on down, except in rainy season. Most of the water got diverted to irrigation projects, and ‘course there was the dam up at Granite Reef took all the rest into Phoenix.”

“Ah,” Jared says, understanding dawning. “So when the Greens took out the dam…”

“…river started gettin’ back to its old self,” Jim agrees. “She’s never gonna be a shipping route, but she’s deep and wide enough. You can run a boat straight through to the California border.”

“Doesn’t anyone watch it?” Jensen asks.

Jim shrugs. “Not real hard. A lot of the irrigation infrastructure round the dam was destroyed, and there’s not enough water to run the rest of it. Most of that land’s gone back to desert. Nobody out there, nobody much bothers with it.” He taps his finger on Yuma. “You’ll likely have some trouble at the border itself, but the way there should be pretty clear – if you keep your heads down.”

This last is accompanied by a glare aimed in Jared’s direction. Jensen looks questioningly at Jared. Jared smirks.

“Always do, Jim.”

Jim grunts, raises his eyebrows, and heads for the kitchen. Anything he mutters is mostly lost in the noise of water running into the kettle, but Jared’s pretty sure the word “idiot” is in there somewhere.

Jensen lets out a long breath. “Jared. I…” He trails off, flicking a finger against his coffee mug and staring at the floor.

Jared leans forward, immediately concerned. “Hey. You okay?”

Jensen’s eyes snap up. “Me? I’m fine. What about _you?_ ” He gestures. “You nearly died back there.”

“I nearly die all the time,” Jared says, laughing. “I’m real good at the ‘nearly’ part.” He holds Jensen’s gaze, telegraphing reassurance. “Seriously, man, it’s no big deal. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Chad was right,” Jensen says softly. “You wouldn’t be out here, running, if it weren’t for me. I still don’t know what the fuck it’s all about. And I’m never going to be able to repay you. Just…thanks.”

Jared shakes his head; Jensen doesn’t get it.

“You saved _my_ life just now. And there’s nothing…” he stops. It’s not the time to tell Jensen. It may never be the time.

“There’s nothing to repay me for,” he says instead. “Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out. We’ve still got friends.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “At least, you do.” He leans back in Jim’s ancient, dusty armchair and closes his eyes, but stress and pain are still evident in every line of his body. Jared’s heart twists.

“I’m sorry about Danneel,” he offers.

Jensen nods, eyes still shut, and his jaw clenches. But then he relaxes, and the tension seems to flow out of his whole body. By the time Jared picks himself up and wanders into the kitchen in search of the new batch of coffee, Jensen’s asleep. Occasional faint twitches of his limbs kick up dust motes, golden in the sunlight streaming in.

 

  


They pay for passage on a refitted ex-Navy gunboat, in the back room of a bar Jim knows. Jared doesn’t like heading in to town but he figures a dubious bar after dark is as safe as it gets, and there’s been no sign yet anyone tracked them out of Albuquerque. He also doesn’t like taking Jensen there with him, but he can understand the captain’s refusal to take on any passengers he hasn’t met. And he _really_ doesn’t like the idea of leaving Jensen somewhere without him.

He does indeed keep his head down; he wears a hooded sweatshirt, and slouches as much as possible. He makes Jensen do the same. Jensen bitches like mad. Jared laughs at him later, back at Jim’s, when Jensen snuggles down in the hoodie and won’t take it off. Jensen flips him off, looking owlish and adorable.

Every once in a while, Jared will catch Jensen watching him. It’s subtle – Jensen always was good at surveillance – but it’s there, and Jared can’t quite get a read on it. Sometimes, it almost feels like the old Jensen never left. Like they could maybe be the way they were.

But Jared doesn’t trust _himself_ enough to believe that can lead anywhere but disaster. He’s too likely to see what he wants to see. Jensen’s been through a hell of a lot in the last couple of days; he’s lost his home, his girlfriend, his new identity. It’s not surprising that Jensen would study him: right now, Jared’s all Jensen’s got, and given the circumstances under which they met and have been traveling, it’s completely logical that Jensen wouldn’t entirely trust him.

Except distrust is not the vibe he’s getting from Jensen. At all.

But then, Jared’s never been able to think all that logically where Jensen was concerned.

Jensen’s watching him again now, as Jared paces back and forth in the tiny confines of their cabin. It’s not a large boat, but there’s room enough for smuggling various goods as well as passengers, and it’s impressive enough that pirates aren’t likely to tangle with it. She makes eighteen to twenty knots an hour, which Jared figures should get them to Yuma somewhere around three a.m., given that they left just after sunset.

“They’ll let us off a mile or so from the border,” Jared had told Jim, “out of sight of the bridge tower guards. We’ll have a couple of hours to hike down to the Colorado and get across while it’s still dark.”

Jim had just grunted and waved them towards a particular cupboard, from which Jared had added various climbing and grappling supplies to the growing piles of stuff in front of them – all of which was now wrapped around them, tucked in boots, or secured in small, waterproof belt packs.

“Cut that out,” Jensen says, waving at Jared’s feet. “You’re making me claustrophobic.”

Jared halts mid-stride, and sits, back against the wall and legs sprawled out.

“You should nap,” Jensen says.

Jared snorts. “Not here.”

“I can watch.”

Jared shakes his head. “I got enough sleep at Jim’s this afternoon.”

Jensen frowns.

“It’s not…” Jared says. “I trust you. Honestly. I just…I couldn’t right now.”

“Okay then,” Jensen says after a long stare, digging through a pocket and extracting a package of band-aids and a deck of cards. “Poker?”

They play for a couple of hours, by which time Jared’s theoretically down around five hundred bucks in band-aid equivalents. It’s past one already. Their cabin’s hot and he’s inexplicably jittery.

“Let’s go above,” he says, and Jensen’s right behind him.

The river’s running through empty territory. The stars are brilliant. Times like this, Jared sympathizes more with the Greens. He takes deep breaths of cool night air, finds the familiar constellations, and sneaks peeks at Jensen’s profile silvered in the moonlight.

They’re standing at the stern, watching the wake slide past, when instinct alerts him someone’s nearby.

He looks to the side, keeping his head as straight as possible. A head rises out of a hatch. The moonlight catches the person’s face briefly as they climb out and melt into the shadows heading for the bow. Seconds later, there’s an almost imperceptible splash.

Jared knows that face. Shit. They _were_ followed. This is bad. He grabs Jensen’s elbow and tugs him away from the edge of the boat, ducking and pulling him down out of sight just as the tiny, silent podcraft passes the stern and disappears upriver into the dark.

“We have to get off this boat,” Jared says quietly in Jensen’s ear. He expects some questioning, at least a dubious look or the familiar raised eyebrow, but Jensen just nods and follows him below.

They’d passed a diving locker on the way to the deck. Jared heads for it.

The locker door sticks. It’s been dented many times, probably by people knocking into it with scuba tanks. Jared gives it a vicious push. It resists, then abruptly releases; he stumbles back and smacks into Jensen.

“Sorry,” he says, “I – ” and then breaks off, willing down memories. Jensen’s hands have come up to grip his shoulders; Jensen’s front is pressed against his back. “I’m okay,” Jared says quietly, gently shaking Jensen off and stepping forward. “We just need to get some gear.”

Jensen silently holds the door wide to let the dim light in. Jared is dismayed by the locker’s relative emptiness. “Fuck.” He digs through the tarps, ropes, and various bits of equipment on the floor but there’s clearly only one set of scuba gear here. At least it’s ready to go; the tank pressure gauge reads full, and he offers silent thanks that the neoprene vest it’s strapped to is Jared-sized.

“Goddamnit,” he says, slinging it on. “Upstairs, upstairs, there’s probably another set by the boats…” He grabs Jensen’s arm and hauls him down the dark, narrow hallway to a ladder, other hand fumbling with the vest buckles. The primary breather is tethered securely but the secondary has come unclipped and tangles around an ankle as he scrambles up the steep ladder. He stumbles and nearly falls as he emerges on deck, but Jensen’s right behind him and steadies him yet again.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters again. Fuck, he has _got_ to get this under control; he’s going to get them killed if he doesn’t. Things aren’t the way they were, and they’re not going to be. This isn’t the old Jensen, and he can’t rely on his instincts, can’t act as if they’re the unstoppable pair they used to be. Not that Jensen’s subconscious isn’t pretty fucking good – he’d be dead already, otherwise – but this new Jensen isn’t the same person and Jared has to remember that.

Has to remember that, and forget a hell of a lot else.

They’re crouched by one of the boats, its shadow a darker inky patch in the night. A bench runs along the edge here, its thinly cushioned seat covering yet more storage. Jared eases the lid up quietly, willing it not to squeak, and reaches one long arm in to fumble around. He’s met with a dismaying amount of space. No tanks, no life vest, nothing. He slides along a bit, reaches farther. Still nothing.

He looks along the deck. There’s a patch of moonlight between them and the next set of boats, but the place seems deserted, nobody else on deck, and the tingle at the base of his skull that usually tells him when he’s being watched is quiet. It makes sense, given who he saw and what he’s expecting; there’s unlikely to be any Republic agents left on board. Still, he didn’t survive this long without being careful.

He turns to Jensen, who’s kept one hand loosely against Jared’s ankle. A fierce, proud shock races through him as he sees that Jensen has his head down, eyes and mouth closed, no glint of teeth or eyes to give them away. Memory or instinct, Jared can’t know, but Jensen is doing his best to keep them safe and trusting Jared to keep _him_ safe, and that – that’s, huh, actually kind of amazing.

He moves his mouth to Jensen’s ear. “Nothing here, gonna move to the next set,” he breathes, and Jensen nods, opens his eyes but keeps looking down. Jared takes another look around, listens for movement, whispers, footsteps, anything to indicate they aren’t alone up here.

Nothing alarming. He starts to stand, still listening, and there it is, a faint change in the engine, a shudder, and fuck it they are _out of time._ He reaches out, grabs Jensen by both shoulders, throws himself backwards, at the rail and over, and they are falling, falling, Jared still trying to push against the air, get as far as possible. They hit the water a fraction of a second before the boat blows up.

Jared wraps his arms around Jensen and kicks out hard, swimming down and away. A chunk of metal tears past his right elbow. Splashes and light all around them mark where pieces of burning wreckage are falling; he ignores it all, concentrating on putting as much distance as he can between them and the wreck.

His lungs are burning and he can’t see. Jensen has locked his arms around Jared’s back too; Jared releases his own grip on Jensen, squeezing gently before he does so to signal reassurance, and unclips the primary breather. Tucking it in his mouth, he takes a deep breath, and another. They’ll be trailing bubbles, but he hopes it won’t be noticeable in the dark and the disaster above them.

The mask is still hanging around his neck. They’re still swimming blind, but getting Jensen air is the priority. He sweeps an arm behind him and around his head, locating and bringing up the secondary breather. Holding it in his right hand, he slides his left up Jensen’s shoulder, neck and chin and taps his fingers over Jensen’s closed lips. He brings the secondary to Jensen’s mouth and Jensen seals around it. Jared lets go and starts pulling the mask on, tipping his head up and exhaling into it through his nose to clear the water out.

Ten seconds later, Jensen’s tugging frantically at him. Jared opens his eyes in alarm. He still can’t see much, it’s far too dark despite the glow behind them, but Jensen looks panicked and there is no stream of bubbles to match his own.

Jared grabs the primary from his own mouth, tugs the other out of Jensen’s mouth and swaps them. Jensen’s chest heaves against his as he sucks in air. Jared tries and gets nothing. He tries again, adjusts the mouthpiece, yanks on the tubing, but there’s no airflow. The system or the tube must be damaged; maybe that’s why this set was left behind in the first place.

He’s starting to feel the need to breathe again. They’re moving fast. He realizes they’ve fallen into a rhythm, muscles working hard and efficiently, synchronously, getting maximum pull through the water without kicking each other. Jensen’s keeping hold of him with one arm now, using the other to help propel them along. His eyes are closed. Jared feels that same brief shock that Jensen gets it, that Jensen trusts him.

He moves his hand once again to Jensen’s face, to his mouth, and Jensen opens, releases the breather, no hesitation. Jared can’t read his expression in the gloom but he knows, bone-deep, there’s no fear, nothing but concentration.

He remembers that look.

A few breaths later, he places the breather back in Jensen’s mouth. They keep going like that, adjusting position slightly to be more comfortable, swimming side by side. Jensen keeps one hand clenched on Jared’s vest; Jared uses one hand to swap the breather back and forth; their free arms pull through the water in perfect rhythm. Jared navigates as best he can, heading away, trying to keep a safe depth and guessing at their distance from shore. Once, when Jensen’s got the breather safely clenched between his teeth, Jared tries to read the pressure gauge but he can’t make out anything in the darkness and there’s no light clipped to the vest. He’s got a small flashlight of his own in one pocket, but it’s useless and waterlogged at this point.

As a result, there’s little warning when the air runs out. He thinks the flow feels less on his last breath, passes the mouthpiece to Jensen, and a few seconds later Jensen’s hand on his vest squeezes twice. Jensen turns his face to Jared, gesturing at his mouth.

They’ve been down at least twenty minutes, Jared estimates, and swimming fast in the direction of the current. The boat, together with any survivors, rescuers, and those aiming to make sure the wrong people weren’t rescued, will be drifting with the current too, but they’re probably clear by now. Besides, they don’t really have a choice.

He clasps Jensen’s free hand in his and raises it above his head. Jensen understands immediately and moves with him, face upturned and trailing a slow stream of exhaled bubbles, last of the air, as they swim towards the surface.

They break the surface and look back, heads turning as one. Copters are circling the distant wreck but it’s far behind them. They’re in the center of the river, maybe twenty feet from land and in the middle of nowhere; no lights break the dark line of the shore.

The night air tastes cold and clean in Jared’s mouth, after the stale, rubbery air from the scuba set. It feels luxurious to take a breath whenever he wants.

They get to shore and scramble up the bank. Jared gestures inland and Jensen nods, falling in behind him. He doesn’t want to leave the scuba tank here for someone to find, and they’re both in wet, constricting clothing, but they still move at a decent pace until they’re out of sight of the river.

He peels back his sodden sleeve as they hike and checks his watch. It’s two-thirty now. If the boat blew somewhere between one-thirty and two a.m., that puts them at least twenty-five miles upstream from Yuma. There’s no way they can make it overland before dawn.

“We’re going to need to hole up somewhere,” he says. “For the day. I don’t think we can afford to travel during daylight. We’re too visible, plus it’s going to get really fucking hot out here.”

“There,” Jensen says, pointing.

Jared nods and makes for the low hill. The whole area is strewn with large rocks tumbled haphazardly together, and there’s an overhang on one side of the hill under which they won’t be easily seen.

He ducks in under it, starts struggling out of the scuba vest, and accidentally hits his head on rock as he straightens up. “Ow.”

“Idiot,” Jensen says, but gently pushes him back out into the open and helps him get the tank off. They shove it deep into a crevice, where the metal won’t catch sunlight, and slide back into their makeshift shelter.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jared says.

They strip down to underwear. The rocks around them hold only the faintest trace of the heat from the previous day, but Jared figures that as soon as the sun comes up, their stuff should dry pretty quickly.

Jared watches Jensen as they move around each other, sneaking peeks at the clean lines of his well-muscled body. It’s less tanned than Jared remembers, but there are some distracting freckles splashed across his shoulders. When Jensen stops moving and just stands there, Jared suddenly realizes he’s staring and raises his eyes with a start to find Jensen looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“Uh,” Jared says. “You hungry?”

He opens one of the waist packs and is relieved to find it was as waterproof as advertised; his gun is still dry. So are the bandages and, more importantly, the emergency rations. He tosses Jensen a protein bar and wolfs one down himself.

Jensen’s settled down on the least rocky bit of their shelter, tucked in where the side of the hill rises up to form the back wall. He’s huddled into a ball, knees pulled up against his chest, shivering slightly.

“Hey,” Jared says, sitting down beside him. Jensen startles briefly, but doesn’t pull away.

“I hear skin to skin works best for keeping warm,” Jared says, lightly. He doesn’t want to scare Jensen off, but he is honestly worried. There are still a few cold hours to get through.

Jensen doesn’t say anything. Jared inwardly kicks himself and starts to move away, but Jensen’s hand grips his arm and pulls him back down. Jensen’s fingers interlace with his, pulling Jared’s arm around Jensen’s chest, and Jensen leans back into him. He still doesn’t say anything, just looks out at the stars.

The warmth that spreads through Jared is out of all proportion to their shared body heat. Jensen is still awake and _allowing_ Jared to snuggle him.

Jared meant to keep watch – pursuit is unlikely but not impossible, and humans are not the only danger out here – but fatigue is sinking deeply into him and his vision is blurring, the stars seeming to trail across the sky. Jensen’s breathing is slow and even against him. He matches it, and his eyes drift shut.

 

  


Jared wakes up with Jensen moaning and thrashing next to him. His eyes are wide open but glazed over. Nightmare.

He smoothes a hand over Jensen’s hair, talks to him, until awareness returns.

“Bad?” he says.

Jensen’s hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists.

“Jared,” he says, “I remember something. I _remember._ The night I disappeared.”

Jared stays quiet.

“The boat, the explosion.” Jensen rubs his hands up and down his arms, where goosebumps are rising. Jared doesn’t think it’s from the cold, but he moves in behind Jensen, gathers him in close and starts running his own hands along Jensen’s back and shoulders. The muscles are rigid under his palms.

“It was…” Jensen’s breath hitches, “it was like before. There was an explosion. No warning. I should have – ”

He slams a hand against the ground. “I couldn’t get to him.”

Jared keeps rubbing Jensen’s shoulders and neck and just listens.

“There was a scientist,” Jensen says, so quietly Jared can barely hear him. Jared isn’t particularly surprised; there’s always a scientist. “He worked out a new method for storing solar energy.”

Jared raises an eyebrow. This doesn’t sound like something the Ghosts would kill for – and if Jensen had been involved, odds were killing was at least a possibility. He says as much.

Jensen shakes his head. “No, dude. You don’t get it. This…thing,” he holds his hands barely six inches apart, shapes a cube, “it concentrated it. Soaked it up, held it, spat it out as electricity, practically no heat loss or decay. It was safe, efficient, and _cheap_ to make. One of those things’d power your whole damn house for a week – and they’d recharge themselves in just a couple of days. Maybe a week if the weather was really shitty.”

Jared is starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Buy two or three of ‘em and that’d be it,” Jensen says. “You could leave the grid for good. Get yourself another for your electric car, and…”

“And StarOil’s out of business,” Jared says numbly. “So they…”

There’s a roaring in Jared’s ears; his tongue is having trouble shaping the words forming in his brain. His nails dig into his palm.

Jensen’s hand covers his, slowly tugs, unfurls his fingers. Jared stares at the red crescent marks; Jensen soothes over them with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “They did.”

He goes on talking, explains how they blew the lab all to hell: the prototype, the computers, all Zach’s notes, Zach himself.

“He was pretty much the only one who understood it.” Jensen rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, he was just this oddball scientist working on some underfunded project nobody really thinks is gonna pan out. He had a government grant so he had to file progress reports once a year, and his last one – I dunno, nobody seemed to get too excited about it, still sounded like a pipedream. But Jeff had a hunch. You know how he gets.”

Jared nods. His whole moderately successful career to date has been based on Jeff’s hunches.

“Jeff thought the guy was worth keeping an eye on.” Jensen laughs bitterly. “And fuck, he was right. Zach was a genius.”

Jared opens his mouth to ask how StarOil found out, but the answer is obvious. They’re all over the government. Maybe nobody got publicly excited about the project’s progress, but somebody besides Jeff would have been watching.

“Cali was watching too,” Jensen says. “The Greens knew this guy was close to having the real thing. I don’t know if they knew he’d actually done it. Their guy was a total nutjob, even more than usual for them, but he was good. I could never figure out if he was constantly stoned or, I dunno, some super-functioning autistic type, but if anyone besides me knew that there was a functional prototype, he would have. The minute I knew, I started working out how to get Zach to Jeff _without_ Misha trailing us.”

“Misha?” Jared frowns. “I don’t know him.” Which means either he died in the blast too, or he hasn’t been active in Texas since. Jared can’t imagine there’s a Cali agent in Texas that he hasn’t at some point encountered, spied on, or dealt with. Or dug up.

“Alona,” he says. Jensen looks blank.

“A girl. She was working in the Texas government. Jeff had known for a while that she was a Cali agent. Somehow they found out. She was trying to get out – we were trying to get her out – but she didn’t make it in time. I just thought. Maybe you’d met her.”

It’s Jensen’s turn to grip Jared’s hand, run soothing fingers up his arm. “I’m sorry. No. She maybe came later. Was it – bad?”

“It’s always bad.”

Jensen ducks his head in acknowledgment.

“Sadie found her,” Jared says. “She’s an incredible dog. She – I kept thinking, after you – I didn’t have her then. She came to me the next year. I used to think, maybe if I’d had Sadie, maybe I’d have found your body.” His voice is unraveling, sticking in his throat. “I hated it. That I couldn’t find you. We couldn’t bury you.”

He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I couldn’t even give you that. I didn’t save you, and then I couldn’t even fucking _find_ you. It’s what I _do_ , and I was fucking _useless._ ”

Jensen reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Hey. Quit blaming yourself. At least you tried. Sounds like you’re the only one who was looking for _me,_ not what I knew.”

Jared swallows. “You remember? What you knew?”

“Kind of.” Jensen laughs, brief and strained. “I remember I’d swiped the contents of Zach’s computer during that last visit, after he told me he’d done it. I had it on a special flash drive Jeff gave me.”

Jared blinks. More pieces of the puzzle are falling into place.

“Fuck,” he says. “I wondered why you were still alive.”

Jensen grimaces. “Yeah,” he says. “The Republic must have known or suspected I had something. I guess they sent Danni to find out what I knew, then keep an eye on me and try to get me to remember.”

“That was a Republic agent, on the boat,” Jared says. “It looks like they’ve changed plans. They’re going for the kill, now.”

“Huh.” Jensen purses his lips and blows out a breath. “So – they wanted the tech, but even more, they don’t want to risk anyone else getting their hands on it?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jared says. “How’d you get out, back then?”

“I’m not sure,” Jensen says, squeezing Jared’s knee briefly. He moves his hand back to his own thigh but Jared can still feel the heat on his skin like a brand. “Something wasn’t right… I had almost no warning, but it was enough to get out of the worst of the blast. I think I remember running for the exit. I must have been knocked on the head by something heavy, ceiling beams or some shit; the hospital said I had a skull fracture and a hell of a concussion.”

Jared shivers. “God. You nearly _did_ die.”

“I didn’t, though,” Jensen says. “And I’m pretty sure I got out of there with the information I’d gone for.”

“Okay,” says Jared. “So, we get that, and get everyone off your back.”

Jensen sighs and leans back, dropping his head against the dirt wall. He looks exhausted.

“Yeah, well, it couldn’t be that easy. I don’t know where the drive is. I don’t remember Dean ever having it.” He sighs again. “Maybe someone took it. Or maybe I mailed it to myself. Maybe I left it in my hotel room, or dropped it in the river, or it’s in the hospital Lost and Found… God, maybe Danni’s had it all along and didn’t know what she had.”

Jared knocks his own head against the wall a couple of times. “So there’s a flash drive somewhere back in Texas with a secret people are willing to kill you for, and we’re stranded somewhere short of California with wet clothes, no money, no comm devices, and no transportation.”

“Yep.”

“And we’re guilty of crossing the border illegally, resisting arrest, and keeping the secret results of a government-funded research project out of the hands of said government.”

“Yep,” says Jensen again.

“Awesome,” says Jared. “We must be guilty of at least six felonies right there.”

“What about sodomy?” Jensen asks. “Was that on our list?”

Jared chokes.

Jensen is suddenly _extremely_ close. “Jared.” His hand comes up, slides into Jared’s hair, cups the back of his head. Jared’s heart starts trying to hammer its way out of his chest. “I don’t – I still don’t remember everything. But I’m pretty sure I remember doing this.” And he kisses Jared.

 

 

  



	4. Chapter 4

  


Jensen can’t believe this. That they’re doing this, that he might have done this before. He can’t believe he could have forgotten this. But then, he can’t believe he forgot kissing Jared either.

Jared’s hands are incredible. Huge and hot, they roam over Jensen’s skin, unerringly finding all his favorite places. He’s a shaking, writhing mess in seconds. Jared’s lips trail over his ear and down, sucking at the junction of shoulder and neck; teeth bite down gently and Jensen arches off the ground with a yell. _Jesus,_ he had no idea.

It’s like Jared knows Jensen better than Jensen knows himself.

Jensen suspects that he does, in this, as in so much else.

After, they sleep again, curled up together. Light is climbing the sky but it’s still cool in their shaded hiding place, and Jensen and his subconscious completely agree on the need to be wrapped up in Jared.

 

  


This time it’s Jared who jerks awake, accidentally kicking Jensen.

A copter is droning overhead. The sun is standing at zenith; the light is blinding, and even in shade the heat is devastating. Jared’s hair is soaked in sweat and his throat is painfully dry.

Jensen tugs at him and they shrink back further under the overhang. Jared glances around, checking all their stuff is out of sight. Jensen’s shirt is close to the edge of shadow. He moves a hand out slowly and grips the hem, tugging it carefully back in.

His muscles are cramping, probably as much from lack of water and electrolyte imbalance as from the small space. He has water purification tablets in his pack but they’re little use if he can’t get to the river.

“Should have brought water up,” he mutters in Jensen’s ear. “Damn it, I’m usually better than this.”

“We’ll be okay,” Jensen murmurs back. “Just have to get through till evening.”

They stay hidden, largely unmoving, sweating profusely, for what feels like hours. The copter’s sound fades in and out, but never enough that they dare venture out of hiding.

After the first hour or so, Jared starts talking. He tells Jensen about life in Texas before separation, about growing up in San Antonio. He tells him about the Ghosts, about Jeff and Gen and Aldis and Katie, and how Jared joined them. He tells stories he remembers _Jensen_ telling: stories of old missions, of baseball triumphs and nights playing guitar, even stories about Jensen’s family.

He doesn’t talk about his own family, and he doesn’t talk about their time together. If Jensen notices the omissions, he doesn’t question it.

Eventually, his parched throat and tongue can no longer shape coherent words, and he falls silent.

Jensen licks his shoulder, the hollow of his throat, collecting the sweat gathered there.

Jared moans unintelligibly.

Jensen slithers down his body, keeping his limbs tucked into the shade, licking everything he passes.

Two things become immediately clear to Jared. One, Jensen doesn’t remember how to give blowjobs, and two, his amateur but highly enthusiastic approach is unbelievably fucking hot.

It’s an embarrassingly short time before Jared’s tugging Jensen’s hair in warning. Jensen ignores him, sucks and jacks harder, and swallows down everything Jared’s got to give.

“Not gonna waste that,” he says smugly, drawing off and licking his lips. “Liquid, protein, sugar and salt…”

Jared growls, flips them over, and before long Jensen’s returning the favor, spilling into Jared’s eager mouth.

As they come down, Jared realizes he can’t hear the copter any more. He chances a quick look out at the sky. The sun is low, but they’d still be far too visible.

“Not yet,” Jensen says. “We’ve waited this long, better hold out till dark.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, dropping his head on Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen’s fingers card through his sweaty, dusty hair.

“I could do with falling in the river again,” Jensen mumbles, and Jared laughs and watches the sun slide down and the shadows lengthen. Jensen is dozing again, snoring gently against Jared’s neck.

“I love you,” Jared whispers, because it’s been four years and he needs to say it out loud, even if it’s just the once, even if he’ll never again say it to Jensen awake.

 

  


When the first stars twinkle into existence against the sky, he rouses Jensen. They dress, gather up their stuff and head down to the river. Jensen lies on the bank and dunks his head in the cool water, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Jared does the same. He sits up and shakes his head like Harley does, and Jensen laughs.

He doesn’t have a water bottle, so they empty out one of the packs – they’re going to eat up the last of the rations anyway – and fill it with water. It’s torture to stand there, counting down the six minutes after they drop in the tablets, waiting until it’s safe; the moment Jared’s watch beeps they split it between them, pouring it carefully into their mouths so as not to waste a drop.

They fill it again, but the urgency is lessened. The wait isn’t so bad this time; they eat a couple of protein bars each, and the water’s ready to wash it down when they’re done.

“Okay,” Jared says. “I don’t know exactly where we are, but I think we’re gonna have to walk most of the night.”

“Then we better get going,” Jensen says, and they do.

Jared’s used to having GPS, but it turns out Jensen is pretty good at astronomy and directions. Besides, all they really have to do is follow the river.

They’ve been hiking for almost six hours, only taking a couple of short breaks to rest, piss, and have another drink, when the lights of Yuma become visible on the horizon.

“North,” Jared says. “The checkpoint’s on the far side of the city, just before the bridge. If we cut up north and come down the river’s edge, we have a better chance of getting onto the bridge without being seen.”

“Sounds good,” Jensen says, and changes direction.

The distance is deceptive, light visible a long way in the flat land at night, and their need to skirt the city doesn’t help. It’s another two hours before they’re approaching the edge of the Colorado River. Jared looks out across it. Not far now.

It’s not like he thinks arriving in California will magically make everything better. But the Free State’s an easy place to go to ground; their privacy laws are a godsend, and their Net is – well, nothing’s unmonitored, but it’s the cleanest one he knows of. He’ll be able to access his bank account, get in touch with Sandy, do some digging on Zach, and figure out how best to keep Jensen safe. They just have to get across the river.

“Tempting,” Jensen says, coming up beside him and looking down at the river, “but I don’t think even you can swim that.”

Jared snorts and turns to the left, heading south along the bank. The bridge looming before them stretches out to their right, off into the dark. The main carriageway is brightly lit, but the understructure is dark, solid beams of metal that won’t pose any problems, once they get onto them.

They’re past the border checkpoint on the road, where immigration and customs business is carried out, but the guard tower at this end of the bridge clings to the drop right at the river’s edge. Searchlights scan through an area around it, and there are guns.

The searchlights are mostly directed in line with the road though, and over the bridge and river; Arizona’s primarily concerned with keeping Free State radicals or illegal immigrants out. The beams of light do swing in their direction occasionally, but they’re easily dodged.

He picks up the pace. The sky is glimmering in the east with a hint of false dawn. Another thirty, maybe forty minutes, and they’ll be visible.

He touches Jensen’s shoulder and points to the base of the tower. Only a wire-topped metal gate, easily scaled, blocks the maintenance steps leading to the framework of the bridge. He pulls on his gloves as they move. Adrenaline is sparking through him. Ten minutes and they’ll be set.

He registers the low growl of a vehicle coming from the east. Nothing new, there haven’t been many at this hour of the morning, but the major routes always have some traffic. It’s probably a good thing; the lights will track the vehicle and any guards looking out will be distracted by it. He spares a quick glance, then turns his head and stares: the vehicle’s not on the highway.

It’s off-roading, running without lights, and coming straight at them.

His first instinct is to drop to the ground, hide, but it’s too late. Someone’s seen them and is calling out to them.

Jared runs. Jensen is right behind him. At this point, subterfuge is useless. They just have to get to that gate and get onto the bridge. Then any pursuers will be on the same footing as them, and Jared is confident he and Jensen can leave anyone behind.

The ground is pretty rocky; maybe it’ll slow the pursuers down some. He can’t do anything about guns except duck, weave, and hope the terrain will throw off their aim.

The vehicle pulls up level with them. It’s a Jeep. He can’t get a good look at the guy driving – it’s dark, he’s wearing a ball cap, and the truck’s bouncing around all over the place – but a second man is leaning out the passenger window, staring at them intently.

Jared hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Jensen hisses. “ _Move,_ Jared, get down, we’ve gotta – ”

“Jensen!” the man calls. “We’re here to help!”

Jensen ignores them. He’s running flat out. Jared keeps pace. He hasn’t breath to ask what the hell’s going on, but he trusts Jensen.

“I can get you across the border, but only if you stop running before you attract the attention of those trigger-happy drones up there!”

Jensen twists sideways, leaps down into a long-dry drainage ditch, keeps moving. “Fuck you!”

“Who?” Jared calls. He needs to conserve his breath, but he’d also like to know what he’s up against.

The Jeep is keeping pace with them easily, but the terrain is too irregular for it to get any closer.

“Misha,” Jensen gasps.

Jared twists, trying to get a look at the guy Jensen identified as a Cali agent, and gets yet another shock.

Mike Rosenbaum, the Ghost who’s been missing since January, is driving with Misha. Jensen wouldn't recognize him; Mike joined after Jensen had gone.

“Jared!” Mike calls. “Get in!”

“Why?” Jared calls. “Chris was there!”

“I’m not with them!” Mike yells. “Chris is an asshole!”

This is something Jared can agree with. Also, they can’t outrun the Jeep, any second the guards are going to notice them, and it’s not like _anybody_ could miss them at this range. If Mike wanted them dead or tranked, he’d have done it already.

“Jensen,” he calls. “Stop.”

“Really?” Jensen yells, still running.

“Trust me,” Jared says.

And Jensen does.

 

  


Mike sticks them in the back of the truck, under yet another tarpaulin. Jared’s starting to get used to this. The Jeep swings back out in a wide circle away from the tower, makes its way into the north side of Yuma, and heads for the checkpoint as the sun comes up.

The border turns out to be no problem at all. Mike even chats with the gate guards.

He stops fifteen minutes later, lets them out and everyone squashes into the cab. Misha is practically sitting on Mike’s lap, but Mike seems to manage driving just fine regardless. Jared chooses not to wonder about where Mike's other hand is.

“You’re – ” Jared shakes his head. “Christ. You’re Cali, aren’t you?”

“Give the man a beer.”

“You’re not Jeff’s. How can you not be… _Nobody_ fools Jeff!”

“Possibly that is true,” Mike says, “and he finds it amusing to watch me think I’m fooling him. Or possibly he’s not as omniscient as everyone who goes in awe of him thinks he is. He hasn’t seen fit to interfere with me yet, though, so I can’t say it matters either way.”

“I’ve always thought of him as a lot more weird and a lot less Zen,” Jared tells Misha. “You must be a good influence.”

“He’s a terrible influence,” Mike returns, “but he’s an awesome lay.”

“It makes up for a lot,” Jensen agrees. Jared whaps him on the back of the head.

“Here we are,” Mike says after another quarter of an hour, turning down a narrow, winding driveway. At the end of it there’s a nondescript two-story house, with a hammock swung on the wide front porch and trees dotting an overgrown lawn.

“Spare bedroom to the right at the top of the stairs,” Misha says. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

Jared barely has the energy to make it up the stairs. He falls into bed and doesn’t worry at all this time about wrapping himself up in Jensen. Jensen seems on board with this plan.

 

  


When Jensen wakes up, Jared is gone.

He doesn’t realize this right away. Awareness returns slowly, and he doesn’t open his eyes at first, instead cataloging the sensations around him. The sun on his face feels like late morning; a bird is tweeting somewhere nearby. The sheets around him are comfortably worn and smell like daylight and spring air.

They’re in California, in Misha’s house. They made it.

And Jared loves him.

The whispered words, on the edges of sleep, didn’t startle him awake, didn’t feel incongruous, or too much too soon. Those words, in Jared’s voice, weren’t remembered but neither were they strange or unfamiliar. He’s certain, as much as he can be certain of anything, that his ears have heard them before. It’s yet another puzzle piece, set gently in place, the one that changes the way you see the lines and makes the pattern clear.

He rolls over and opens his eyes, smiling, but Jared isn’t there.

Jensen sits up and listens. The house is making the occasional subdued creak, talking to itself. No additional noises suggest the presence of another human being. Jensen’s clothes, washed and folded, are on a chair beside the bed; his clean boots sit under it. Jared’s shoes are absent. Everything of Jared’s is absent.

Jensen’s gun is still under his pillow. He pulls on his clothes and tucks it in his waistband.

The broad pine floorboards are smooth and silent under his bare feet. He starts to head out of the room, then turns back, puts on socks and ties his boots securely. If he has to run, he’ll have his own damn shoes with him this time.

Would Jared really have gone off without him?

The Jared he half-knows, half-remembers wouldn’t. But four years is a long time. The Misha he remembers wouldn’t have helped him escape.

Then again, maybe he didn’t. Maybe Jensen’s exactly where somebody wants him to be.

The kitchen is deserted. The fridge is unplugged, door ajar, and there’s no food in the cupboards. There’s a kettle; next to it stands an almost-empty jar, crumbs of instant coffee sticking to its insides.

The taps work. He puts some water in the kettle and sits down at the small kitchen table, gun lying in front of him, and watches light and shadows shimmer over it as leaves dance outside the window.

The kettle’s noise peaks as the water boils. It almost obscures the sound of feet on the front steps. The sound of the door opening, however, is loud in the silence that follows the automatic shut-off. Jensen balances the haft of the gun on the table and steadies it with his other hand, breathing shallowly and quietly.

Footsteps move down the hall, and Jared walks in.

“Dude,” he says, “move your gun, I want to put breakfast there.”

The bakery bag crackles and emits a warm cinnamon smell. The coffee Jared shoves over to him is extra-large, extra-hot, and tastes like heaven.

“You actually thought I’d leave?” Jared says, licking powdered sugar off his fingers in a highly distracting way. Jensen shrugs.

“Clearly, your memory is still shit,” Jared says, and kicks him under the table.

“Yeah,” Jensen says heavily, “it is. I have no fucking idea what I did with that flash drive. For all I know, it went out in the hospital trash. Or some paramedic wiped it and uses it to store her creative writing exercises.”

Jared takes another huge bite of pastry. “What would you do with it now?” he asks, only barely intelligible through the crumbs.

“I – ”

Jensen pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I was always gonna take it to Jeff.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. He looks almost as lost as Jensen felt, two days ago, realizing that the world didn’t work the way he thought it did.

“Something like that, though…” Jensen takes a gulp of coffee and stares out the window. “Something like that shouldn’t belong to one person. One group. It would – it could change the world.”

Jared thinks about it. About the world’s governments, corporations, hostilities and inequities, power and hunger. All based on energy: supply, demand, need.

“It really would,” he says, awed.

“Who do you… who do you _trust_ with that kind of shit?” Jensen says.

A car door slams outside.

“Mornin’, sunshines!”

Mike breezes into the kitchen. Noises in the front hall suggest that Misha is entangled with the door. He appears in the doorway a few moments later, hauling a large roll of canvas.

“What’s that for?” Jared inquires.

“Well,” says Misha, “I considered using it as camouflage. Or making hammocks, but it appears to be the wrong sort of canvas.” He stands it against the wall. “Mike has offered to get me paint. I think I will try my body at art.”

“You mean your hand?”

“No,” says Misha. “Why restrict myself to fingers, when I have a whole body? The potential patterns are unlimited. I plan to render the Bhujangasana in ocean tones.”

Jared blinks at Mike, who has pulled out a chair and kicked his feet up on the table. “Were you always into crazy, and I just never noticed?”

“You get used to him,” Mike says.

“But I’m not planning to do it now,” Misha says. “We need to access Jensen’s subconscious, and I don’t think paint is one of his triggers.”

Mike tips his chair back on two legs.

“You were there, with Zach,” Mike says to Jensen. “Misha’s told me all about it. You had the secret. We want it.” He waves a hand at Jared, who is surging to his feet, chair falling over behind him. “And we’re about the only people who won’t try and kill you for it. Give me _some_ credit, Jay.”

“How long were you trailing us?” Jared asks tightly. “Jim said there were others, at the airport. Not just the Republic, some others he didn’t recognize.” He doesn’t want to kill Mike; he’s always kinda liked Mike. But nobody fucks with Jensen.

“That wasn’t us,” Mike says. “StarOil’s been pretty keen to find you too. They lost a lot of control when you,” he nods in Jensen’s direction, “messed up the old government, and they’ve put a lot of work into getting it back. One of our friends discovered they’re planning to stage a coup of their own in a couple of weeks time. They found out she was a Cali agent, though, and they were afraid Cali would interfere. The Free State’s been pretty verbal about their support for the liberal rights agenda in Texas, and everyone knows the Greens are anti-oil freaks...”

“StarOil knew that if Cali found out about their plans, they were sunk,” Misha summarizes. “They’re also terrified of Cali getting their hands on Jensen. I’m certain they were behind the lab bombing, and until a few days ago, they didn’t know Jensen had survived. We’re not sure how they found out, but they’ve been after you every step of the way.”

“When did the government start working on alternative energy, though?” Jensen frowns. “Wasn’t Zach’s project funded by the old government?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, “and StarOil wasn’t too happy about it. Some members of government felt it wasn’t a good idea to be too dependent on the oil monopoly, and managed to squeeze out a little funding into alternate energy sources. The oil folks didn’t like it but they weren’t all that worried, as long as it didn’t look like it was going to work. When it did, though…they took steps to be sure their government buddies wouldn’t get results.”

Jared has a nasty, sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Your friend,” he says. “Was she…what happened?”

It’s the first time both Mike and Misha fall silent. They look at each other, not at him.

“Alona,” he says. It isn’t really a question.

“Yes,” Misha says finally.

Jared sighs. “I’m sorry.” He steps back, retrieves his chair and pushes it up next to Jensen; when he sits down, their knees touch.

“She deserved better,” Mike says.

“They killed her fast,” Jared says, and he feels Jensen flinch slightly, but he knows Mike will understand. “It didn’t make sense to me, that it was the Republic.” He frowns. “Still doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t StarOil want to get more out of her?”

“All they really wanted to know was if she’d called home,” Mike says. “Thanks to Amnesty, she didn’t know she had.”

“Amnesty?” Jared blinks.

“An amnestic,” Misha says.

“I feel like you hiccupped in that sentence,” Jared says. “What are we talking about?”

“An amnestic is a drug that interferes with memory,” Mike explains. “You take it and you don’t remember what happens while it’s in your system. But, and this is the real beauty of it, you forget what happened for ten minutes or so before you took it, too.”

Jared frowns, trying to work it out. “So…”

“So she called me,” Mike says, “and told me about their plans. She also told me that they were onto her. She’d injected herself right before she called.”

“She forgot your conversation,” Jared says, understanding dawning.

“Yeah,” Mike says heavily, “and she also forgot having the idea to do it drugged. They caught up with her soon after that. She might have thought she had more time to recover from the drug, but I think she knew she was out of time and options. But she would be completely believable when she told them she hadn’t had a chance to pass any information on to Cali. Truth serum, torture, whatever they might try; she wouldn’t remember.”

Jared swallows against a lump in his throat, remembering the marks on her body. “They killed her as soon as they heard that. Figured her intel died with her.”

Jensen hasn’t said a word through this exchange but Jared can feel the tension in the leg pressed up against his own. He guesses that the idea of willingly tampering with your own memory is weirding him out.

“She died warning us,” Mike says. “We’ve got two weeks to take down StarOil, and precious little proof of anything. I doubt we can go after them directly. Which is where you come in.”

He points at Jensen again. “The oil monopoly’s right to be scared of you. Zach’s discovery makes them pretty much irrelevant, especially now that we’ve developed alternative plastics. They lose their economic power; they lose their political power. You, my friend, contain the secret that can destroy them.”

“Maybe,” says Jensen. “And I’m not too keen on giving it to Cali. The Greens have done their share of blowing things up. Your government isn’t exactly what I’d call stable right now. I wouldn’t trust them with that kind of info, even if I knew it.”

“It’s good logic.” Mike tips his chair back even farther. His left toes, hooked under the edge of the table, are the only things keeping him from disaster. “But there’s a flaw in your premise.”

Jensen gives him the stink-eye.

“We’re not exactly working for Cali.”

Jared’s hand twitches in automatic reflex. He checks the motion. These guys have rescued them, put them up, and not killed them. Whoever they’re working for, he’ll give them the chance to explain.

“So, who?”

“Us,” Mike says.

Jensen raises his eyebrows. “What, just the two of you?”

“No,” Mike says. “Humanity.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Jensen. “I have had enough of fucking saviors of humanity.”

“No, you haven’t,” Mike says, “because there haven’t been any lately. We, however, plan to do it.”

“Can you imagine?” Misha cuts in. “Humans have been struggling for centuries with limited resources. We fight over coal, oil, wood, and all the while we’re swimming in energy, all around us!” He waves a hand at the window, at the sun spilling into the sink. “All we need is a way to harness it. And the key to that is hidden in _your_ head.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Jensen.

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” says Jensen, “it really isn’t. It’s on a flash drive back in Texas which is probably in a garbage processor by now.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Misha.

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” says Misha, “it really isn’t. It’s in my pocket.”

Jared has seen Jensen make any number of bewildered faces over the last forty-eight hours, but this one is priceless. He is aware he’s gaping like a stunned fish himself.

Misha dips a hand in his pocket and holds up a drive, spinning it between his fingers.

“How the _hell_ did you get that?” Jensen says finally. He leans forward to take a closer look, shaking his head incredulously. “It _looks_ like mine.”

“You gave it to me.”

Jensen’s face is simply indescribable. Jared is going to have to come up with new adjectives.

“When?” he croaks out finally. “The goddamn building blew up. My _shoes_ were on fire. I still have the scars.”

“Yes,” Misha says. “I was in there too.”

“I…” _don’t remember_ is obviously what Jensen was about to say, but he swallows it. “But we were…”

“On different teams,” Misha agrees. “Petty, human squabbling. This discovery was bigger than that: you knew it, I knew it.”

“So I just _gave_ it to you?” Jensen still sounds suspicious.

“At the hospital.”

Understanding dawns slowly. “You took me in?”

Misha nods.

“That was in Houston.” Jared says. “How’d you get out of the city?”

“Glider,” Misha says.

Jensen stares at him. Jared bursts out laughing.

“That’s very, um, eco-friendly,” Jensen says. “Also, probably scary as hell. I don’t think I want to remember that.”

“You won’t,” says Misha, “you were unconscious at the time.”

“Excellent.”

“Harley’s good, but he’s not that good,” Jared says, still chuckling. “Glider. Fucking hell.”

Something clearly occurs to Jensen. His head snaps up and he points at Misha. “You were supposed to be on that plane.”

“No,” Misha says. He looks at Jensen with approval. “But they thought I was.”

Mike frowns. “What plane?”

“The one that crashed that same day,” Jared says, meeting Jensen’s eyes. “Continental 661. The airline said it was an engine fault. You think it was deliberate?”

“Kind of a coincidence,” Jensen says.

“StarOil thought I was dead,” Misha says. “It’s been handy.”

“So you survived the explosion, and then missed being killed in a plane crash because you were sailing through the sky with an unconscious enemy,” Jared says, shaking his head. “Dude. Your life is even cooler than mine.”

“You woke up when I was carrying you into the ER,” Misha says to Jensen, and Jared eyes Misha with new appreciation because it’s not that easy to sling Jensen Ackles over your shoulder. He should know. “You were getting very agitated, told me you had a secret and they were trying to take it away. You asked me to keep it safe for you.”

“Great,” Jensen says. “So how come you did?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. This tech could change the world. I got blown up _four years_ ago. Why the hell hasn’t the world changed yet?”

Misha presses his lips together. It’s the first time Jared’s seen him look frustrated.

“Because we can’t get it to work.”

Mike takes over, gesticulating as he talks. “We had a lot of the information you had on that drive already. Your file was newer, solved a few problems, and laid out the manufacturing process step-by-step. There were a couple of steps Zach didn’t describe in detail but basically it’s all there, pretty easy to figure out. Except, the thing isn’t stable. The matrix decays in seconds and the only way to keep it running is to put more energy into it. It doesn’t take all the converted solar energy to do that, there’s still a net gain, but it makes it wear it out too fast. It’s not sustainable.”

“Are you sure Zach really _had_ figured it out?” Jared says gently. He has to ask, but he dreads the answer. Jensen’s life was ruined for this; they’ve been shot at, blown up, and chased halfway across the country for this. It’s painful to think about how Jensen will feel if it’s all been for nothing.

“Yes,” says Misha, with absolute conviction. “I saw the prototype.”

Jared lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“It was done once, it can be done again,” Mike says. “But the other thing about your file is that it’s timestamped around 36 hours before the explosion.”

“Huh,” Jensen says. “So there’s a window where he came up with the answer, but I didn’t get it.”

“You got it. I have faith.” Misha points at him. “You were an extremely good rival. I am _certain_ that you got it. You just didn’t put it on the drive. Hence me saying, it’s in your head.”

“Then you’re shit outta luck,” Jensen says.

Jared blinks. Something is niggling at him.

“I could hypnotize you,” Misha says.

“No fucking way,” Jensen says.

“Um,” says Jared.

 

  


“You left me a phone message.” Jared pushes a hand through his hair. “The morning you disappeared. You said something weird. Like it was code or something. I never figured out what it meant.”

Mike turns his head sharply and looks at Misha. Misha turns and looks intensely at Jensen, head tilted. Jensen stares back, trying not to show discomfort. His admittedly patchy memories of Misha had him down as more zany, less badass psycho.

“Can you remember what he said?” Mike asks Jared, suppressed excitement humming in his tone.

“I could hypnotize you instead,” Misha offers to Jared. Jensen has no doubt he could.

Jared shudders. “’S okay. I remember pretty well. But I can do better than that. You got a ComNet point here?”

Mike’s on his feet and heading for the stairs before Jared finishes. “You _saved_ it?”

“Yeah,” Jared says, following him.

Jensen is hard on his heels. “A phone message from four _years_ ago? ComNet wipes every three months.”

“Not the core info,” Jared says. “I saved the sound file as a backup greeting. Out of Office autoreply. I never use that function, so it’s not like anyone was gonna hear it, but it kept it around.”

They crowd into a small room at the back of the house, down the hall from the one Jared and Jensen were in. It’s sunny but spare: a pull-out futon, a mostly empty bookshelf, and a currently inactive ComNet point.

“Why not save it on media?” Mike says from under the desk. He shuffles some cables around, plugs in a blocker. The screen flickers to life. “Okay, we’re live and incognito. I give it about six minutes. Four to play it safe.”

“I did,” Jared says, “but god knows where that is now. I just never wiped this one. It was nice having a copy on the Net, I could listen anytime.”

“You listen to old phone messages a lot?” Jensen says, bewildered.

“I told you. I was sure there was some hidden meaning in this one. I couldn’t figure it out. I kept coming back to it for the better part of a year.” Jared rubs the back of his neck and gulps. “And, uh. It was the last time I heard your voice, y’know?” He blushes. “Kinda… all I had left.”

Jensen can feel his own ears going bright red. He can’t bring himself to look at Mike and Misha, who are probably making ridiculous faces.

“Once again, gay love saves the day,” Mike intones. Jared makes a strangled sort of noise.

“Yeah, not yet. For all you know, I was drunk, that’s all,” Jensen says, and elbows Mike out of the way so Jared can start logging in. There’s no chair; he’s hunched over the tablet, peering down at the screen, and shifting every few seconds.

“Your spine is unhappy,” Misha says from the futon.

“Your spine looks like it’s a Mobius loop,” Jensen retorts. Misha is folded into some yoga position that appears to defy physical laws.

Mike leers. “I like that in a man.”

Jared gives up and kneels on the floor. He skips the stupid ComNet greeting and heads into _Personal Setup._ “Okay… There.”

It’s weird to hear his own voice spilling from the speaker, saying words he doesn’t recall. It’s his voice, but it belongs to a person he’s not sure he knows. He shifts his weight, tries to swallow but his mouth is dry.

Jared’s warm hand grips his elbow and anchors him as they all listen.

_Jay. You still asleep? Get up, man, it’s past noon. Hey, did you know the easiest way to get the quills out of a dead porcupine is to stick it in the deep freeze? They come out smooth as butter once it’s frozen._

“The hell?” Mike says. “Yeah, I can see why you thought something was off.”

“No, no,” Jared says, shooting him an annoyed glance and hitting pause. “That’s not it, that’s just Jensen, he’s always spouting random trivia shit.”

“I am?”

“Uh. You were.” Jared grins. “You started phone messages like that all the time. It’s thanks to you I know the okapi can lick its own ears.”

“I don’t know that,” says Jensen.

“You do now.”

Jensen scrunches up his face.

“Cool,” Mike says. “It’s a sort of time paradox. Only without destroying the space-time continuum.”

“Fascinating,” Misha says solemnly. He’s moved into full lotus.

“Whatever,” Jensen says. “So what weird shit did I say that actually struck you as weird?”

Jared restarts the playback.

_…go out this weekend. Maybe grab a beer at Henry’s, split a plate of their awesome nachos. Anyway, gimme a call when you get a chance._

Mike blinks at Jared. “That’s all?”

“I accept that you knew him better than I did,” Misha says, “but the first half definitely seems more odd to me.”

Jared signs out and cuts the connection.

“Jensen _hated_ Henry’s. It was loud and pretentious, the service sucked, and their nachos were like cardboard.”

“Huh.”

Jared chews his lip. “I went there. I watched for any known contacts, searched the bathroom, did all the usual shit.” He grimaces. “I even ordered the nachos, in case it was some kind of code. They’d used that Cheese Whiz kind of sauce, it was awful. And still, nothing.”

“It’s not a chain or something?” Jensen asks. “You were in the right place?”

“Nah, there’s just the one,” Mike says.

“Thank god,” Jared adds.

Silence settles heavy in the room. Mike looks… Jensen doesn’t know him enough to read him well, but he’s clearly looking to Jensen for answers. And Jared – Jared’s got his stupid, beautiful, _hopeful_ face on. Like Jensen won’t let him down.

He’s not up to this. Jared is… huge and overwhelming and amazing and in love with somebody Jensen maybe used to be. Or maybe Jared was always in love with a fantasy, a Jensen he made up inside his head. Someone who was better, stronger, larger than life.

Someone like Jared himself.

He hates to disappoint him, but he knows that sooner or later, he will. No time like the present.

“No idea,” he says, voice harsher than it needs to be. “Jared. I’m not gonna come up with a miracle here. I don’t have the answer.”

“I know,” Jared says. “I know you don’t remember. But I figure that of all of us, you’ve got the best chance of understanding how your own brain was working.”

“I _can’t,_ ” Jensen says dully. “I’ve _tried,_ fuck, you think I haven’t tried? Every time, every time I push it, it’s like this _wall,_ I can’t get through…”

Jared curls a finger under his chin and turns it. Their eyes meet directly.

“So stop pushing.”

Jensen huffs out a breath. “Yeah, thanks, tried that too, tried relaxing, being a fucking door, a wind, an opening flower, god, tried stupid imagery shit up the wazoo and all it ever got me was a migraine splitting my skull.” He gestures to Misha, still in lotus, now with his eyes closed. “I’ll leave that to Buddha over there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jared says softly. He slides his hand up, curls it behind Jensen’s head, fingers gently massaging. “I don’t – I’m not asking you to try and remember. I’m asking you to think.”

He smiles at Jensen, that smile that feels like the sun coming up.

“Screw the past. It was good, it was awesome, but it’s the past. I want the future.” He swallows, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I like this you. I’m _happy_ with this you. You’re hot, you’re funny, and you’re one of the smartest guys I know. I don’t care if you ever dig up any more old memories or not. I want to make new ones.”

Jensen can feel all of him going bright red, not just his ears.

“So, I need your help thinking. Some guy once left me a coded phone message. I need you to help me solve it.”

Jensen twists, surges up and kisses Jared fiercely, trying to pour into it everything he can’t say.

“If you _did_ want him to remember, you could try fucking him again,” Mike says finally, breaking the moment. “Sounds like that worked pretty well last time.”

Jared lets out a bark of stunned laughter. Jensen gives Jared a disbelieving look. “You told him that?”

“No, he was all secretive,” Mike says. “I just extrapolated from known details.”

“I’m not having sex in front of you,” Jensen says.

“It _is_ a good gateway to the subconscious,” Misha says.

“Still no,” Jensen says. “Anyway, I remembered _before_ we, uh. It was a consequence, not a cause.”

Jared smiles softly and leans back against the wall, tugging Jensen’s back against his chest and locking his arms around Jensen’s stomach. He nuzzles into Jensen’s neck. “Ignore him. Start thinking.”

“Quit distracting me,” Jensen grumbles.

“Nope,” Jared says cheerfully, licking his ear – Jensen’s ear, that is. Jared’s no okapi. Not a porcupine either; that’d be Jensen, all prickly and prone to hibernation.

Jared is sucking open-mouth kisses down Jensen’s neck. He lifts his head slightly and blows, cool air on the wet skin. Jensen shivers and closes his eyes briefly.

When he opens them, he has it.

“Misha’s right,” he says.

“This is a frequent occurrence,” Misha says, which startles Jensen somewhat; he’d thought Misha had gone to sleep. “To which do you refer?”

“If I were leaving that message now,” Jensen says, “I’d say the shit about Henry’s to make you realize this isn’t a straightforward message. But I’ll bet you anything you like the trivia isn’t random. Who the hell cares how to get out dead porcupine quills?”

He’s nodding as he talks; this feels right. “The answer’s in the first half. Whatever I wanted to say, I didn’t want to say it flat out over that phone line. But me, now? That’s where I’d hide it.”

He looks at Mike. “What happens if you freeze the thing?”

“I…don’t know,” Mike says, thoughts turning almost visibly in his brain. “It would…get cold. And…contract. Shrink, very slightly. The matrix would condense.” He chews his lip. “It might stabilize. But it wouldn’t _work._ You couldn’t keep running it that way, it would take too much energy to keep it cold.”

He rubs a hand over his scalp. “You’d have to bring it back up to room temperature, and the matrix would just expand again.”

“Michael.”

They all turn to look at Misha. He has his head cocked in that weird, measuring way again; his eyes look slightly unfocused.

“How do you shape the matrix?”

Mike wrinkles his forehead. “You have to apply that series of magnetic pulses – that was one of the first things we worked out, remember? – to get the molecular bonds to fall in line and create the locking grid.”

“Would they fall into the same orientations if they were cold?”

Mike looks staggered.

“They wouldn’t be vibrating at the same frequency,” Misha says. “At least, I know I don’t when I’m cold.”

Jared snickers.

Mike’s mouth is moving, silently. He’s blinking repeatedly.

“Perhaps they’d fold into a more stable configuration.”

Mike whoops and leaps to his feet. He lunges for Misha, grabs him and tries to haul him up to dance with him. As Misha’s legs are still locked in lotus position, this is less than successful. The futon collapses as they crash back down on it.

“Genius,” Mike says reverently.

“One has to know one’s strengths,” Misha says. “Physical conformations are a specialty of mine.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the local expert on _physical chemistry,_ ” Mike says, leering down at Misha.

Jared raises his eyebrows. “We’ll be, uh. Not here.”

“Coffee,” Jensen agrees, heading for the door.

 

  


They sit on the back steps with their coffee.

“You did it,” Jared whispers, breath warm on Jensen’s ear.

“Not without you,” Jensen murmurs back.

It’s a perfect, sunny day. They soak it up.

 

  


There are still a few things to sort out.

Jared wipes his ComNet account.

Mike buys some liquid nitrogen.

Misha does some painting.

Jensen sleeps in a lot.

“Come on down to the kitchen,” Jared says, pulling the sheets off him. “Mike’s almost all set up. It’s time to risk the space-time continuum.”

Jensen looks like a grumpy hedgehog. It’s adorable. It’s almost enough to make Jared relent and leave him alone, but he doesn’t want Jensen to miss the moment of triumph.

Or, you know, if Mike destroys the universe, Jared would rather spend his last minutes with Jensen than without Jensen. He’s spent far too much time in this world without Jensen, thank you very much.

“I don’t actually _want_ to destroy the space-time continuum,” Jensen says, stomping down the stairs in his pajamas. “I like my on-going existence.”

“Me too,” Jared says, hugging him. Again. It’s kind of ridiculous how much he hugs Jensen these days, but he figures he’s making up for four years of deprivation.

“You worry too much,” says Misha, twisting his elbows into an impossible relationship. “Fuck, ow.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be relaxing?” Jensen says.

“I’m inventing a new pose,” Misha says. “It’s inspired by the new matrix configuration, which unfortunately is rather difficult for the human body to mimic. But I persevere.”

“I’m not sure the human body can fold like that,” Jensen says.

“His can,” Mike says. “Trust me.”

“It’s like yoga and origami,” Jared says. “Yorigami.”

“You should be concentrating on that,” Jensen says to Mike, gesturing at the apparatus Mike is tinkering with.

“I’m very good at multi-tasking,” Mike says, connecting small pieces of tubing. “Everyone remembered to remove any piercings or other bits of metal?”

He sticks his tongue between his teeth and flicks a switch. There’s a small pop and a low humming noise.

“…And the world’s still here,” he says. “Good.”

Jared rests his chin on Jensen’s shoulder and peers at the thingummy. There’s a thin layer of frost on the cube at the center. Mike dusts off his hands theatrically.

“That’s it?” Jensen says.

“Not quite,” Mike says. “The magnetic field stays on thirty seconds. Then we take it out, warm it up, and see what happens.”

“I have complete faith,” says Misha. “You are, after all, an evil genius.”

“I don’t remember anyone mentioning the evil bit,” Jensen says. “Do I have to sic Jared on you?”

“He’s only evil to me,” Misha says. “ _Ow._ Damn. Maybe the right leg has to go around the other way.”

“Only when you ask,” Mike says. He pulls on a pair of thick gloves and gestures to Jared. “Pass me those tongs.”

He lifts the cube out of the set-up, and sets it gently on the thermosensitive strip lying on the windowsill.

They all stare at it.

“Do we need goggles?” Jared asks. “It’s not going to explode, or burn out our retinas, or anything?”

“No,” Mike says, pulling off the gloves. “Well. Not if it’s worked properly.”

“It’s the uncertainty that makes it so much fun,” Jensen says. Mike throws a glove at him.

“Schrodinger’s Cube,” Jared agrees. “Will it or won’t it?”

Mike’s leaning over it, reading the strip. “The surface is up to plus ten now. Another fifteen degrees and we should know.”

Jared frowns. “Isn’t it warming awfully fast?”

“It _is_ warming fast,” Mike says, “but I think that’s because it’s doing its job. So far. It’s sucking up light and converting it. Right now, with this big thermal differential, it makes entropic sense to create heat. That should stop once it hits ambient temperature.”

He checks the strip again.

He backs up and sits down heavily in the wobbly kitchen chair, and doesn’t say anything.

Jared and Jensen share a look.

“No good?” Jensen asks.

Mike turns a blank face towards him. “It’s fine. It’s – it’s stable.”

“I knew it,” says Misha serenely. “Look. So am I.”

The doorbell rings.

 

  


There on the porch, suitcase at her feet, is Sandy.

Jared has one second to register this shocking fact before Harley and Sadie leap past her and cannon into his chest, taking him down.

“You need to go pay the cab driver,” Sandy says. “I had enough for the trip but I didn’t expect a huge surcharge for the dogs.”

“They wouldn’t have been any trouble,” Jared says indignantly, trying to hug them both and rub them behind the ears and simultaneously avoid getting licked to death.

“No,” Sandy says, “but they’re terrible back seat drivers.”

“I’ll give you that,” Jared says, extricating himself finally and standing. They continue to circle around his legs, sniffing him. Sadie stares at him.

“What?” Jared says to her. “Okay, fine. He’s in the back.”

He waves behind him and the dogs take off. Jared suppresses a smirk, imagining Jensen’s response to their enthusiastic welcomes.

“Go on in,” he tells Sandy, “make yourself comfortable. Leave the suitcase, I’ll get it.”

He pays the driver and hauls her surprisingly heavy bag into the front hall. He can hear her making polite conversation with Jensen. Mike and Misha seem to have made themselves scarce.

“So,” he says, walking into the kitchen, “need any introductions?”

“We’ve managed,” Jensen says, handing Sandy a Coke. “I was feeling a little awkward about being in pajamas, but apparently Sandy’s known me for years, so I think I can let it slide.”

“Great,” Jared says, sitting on the floor and letting the dogs swarm him. “We can skip to the important stuff. What’s going on back there? How’d you get the dogs? How’d you find us? Is Jeff gonna show up next?”

Sandy can look serious. She just doesn’t do it very often. This is one of those times.

“Mike called in. When he found out what’s been happening at Headquarters, he told me I’d find you here. Jeff’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“No idea.” Sandy takes a long gulp of her drink. “The whole place sort of imploded. You were gone and nobody knew why, and then we found out you had Jensen with you. Jeff didn’t believe you would double-cross him, but the way you took off and didn’t get back in touch…”

“Chris was at the house that morning!” Jared interrupts. “He was trying to _kill_ Jensen! I thought Jeff was running his own double-cross.”

“It wasn’t Jeff. It was Chris.”

“Why would Chris try to kill Jensen? He was his best friend.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill Jensen,” Sandy says. “He wanted to get him, take Jensen away himself.” She sighs. “You know he was always jealous of you.”

Jared frowns. “What? Why?”

Sandy raises her eyebrows. “Really? Were you _really_ that oblivious?” She glances at Jensen, who’s been keeping quiet while they catch up. “Because. You idiot.”

Jared stares at Sandy, then looks over at Jensen.

“…Oh.”

“Chris,” Jensen says, brow furrowed. “About five ten, light brown hair, really blue eyes?”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “You remember him?”

“Not from before. He came to my bar. I got a weird vibe off him, but I didn’t recognize it.” Jensen looks at Jared. “Then he was at the house the next day. He must have followed me home. I didn’t know _that_ was the guy you were talking about, the one from your side.”

Jared frowns. “So if he wasn’t trying to kill you, who was?”

“The dark-haired guy,” Jensen says. “The one who shot Chris.”

He swallows. “Chris was just standing there, staring at me. He had a gun, but y’know, he wasn’t aiming it. He wouldn’t – I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have shot me, whatever happened. Then this other guy showed up at the other end of the hall. He fired at me, I ducked, and it hit Chris. Meanwhile, _you_ showed up and…” He gestures. “You know the rest.”

“I don’t,” Sandy says, “but you can fill me in on the details later. So then…”

“The dark-haired guy,” Jared interrupts. “Almost as tall as me? Blue eyes?”

“And built like a tank,” Jensen says. “Yeah. What, another of yours?”

“No,” Jared says grimly. “Fucking _bastard._ Tom Welling. He works for the Republic. He’s the guy I saw on the damn boat.”

“He doesn’t work for the Republic,” Sandy says. “Or, well, he does, but not really. He’s StarOil.”

“What?” Jared says, stunned.

“He’s the CEO’s great-nephew,” Sandy says. “I thought everybody knew that. I mean, he keeps it quiet, but I thought _you’d_ know that.”

“He’s really good at explosions,” Jared says. His fists clench of their own volition. “I wonder where he was four years ago.”

Jensen turns and stares down at him. “You think…?”

“I do,” Jared says. “And I am going to _kill_ him.”

Sandy flinches. “Jared, hon. I’m sorry, but… calm down, okay? There’s more stuff I have to tell you.”

Jared takes a couple of deep breaths, releases them. Sadie is still lying across his legs. He scratches her under her chin, and feels a little tension drain from him.

Sandy speaks again. “So you and Jensen were both gone. Jeff was furious. He ordered Aldis to go after you, and Aldis flat out refused.”

Her eyes sparkle. “He said Jared was a good guy, that you had to have reasons for whatever you were doing, and he wasn’t going to interfere.”

Jared blinks and grins. “Man. I owe him big time for that.”

“Katie sided with Aldis. Then Mike stopped reporting in. Jeff was counting on Chris to get you. And then…”

She bites her lip, obviously bracing herself to tell the rest.

“Then Chris showed up, and stabbed Genevieve.”

Jared stares at her. He can’t have heard right. Gen. She can’t…

“Is she…” he says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“He came in, ranting about her being a lying little bitch, that she’d just been using him. He knifed her in the chest, right at her desk.” Sandy’s voice cracks. “In _our_ office. I’d just left for a few minutes to pick up lunch.”

Jared can’t process, can’t move. It’s Jensen who takes Sandy’s arm and guides her to a chair.

“I found her like that. He was gone, but I ran the security camera tape.” She looks up at Jensen. “It was Gen who kept trying to get you killed. She was Tom’s contact.”

“What?” Jared bursts out. “Why…”

Once again, pieces start clicking into place, and as the picture reveals itself they fall faster and faster.

“…Oh.”

He tastes bile in the back of his throat. He sags back heavily against the cupboards, feeling suddenly cold. Sadie whines and licks his hand.

Jensen’s solid warmth slides up beside him, long legs stretched out alongside Jared’s. Jensen’s arm is across his shoulders; Jensen’s hand is over Jared’s heart, warming and grounding him.

“Yeah,” Sandy says. “Not only that. She was connected with StarOil. She’s been working to keep them in power in the Republic, and apparently Jensen’s a threat to them, although Jeff didn’t tell me why.” She eyes them questioningly. Neither responds; she shrugs and continues. “But yeah. It was personal too.”

“Personal?” Jensen says.

“Uh,” Jared says.

Sandy rolls her eyes. “She pined after Jared for _years_. And just when she thought she had a chance, you pop up again.”

Jensen tips his head up, nose brushing Jared’s jaw. “Oh. So you and she…?”

“We dated a couple of times,” Jared says quietly. “It wasn’t – I didn’t want anything serious or long-term.” He swallows. “Again.”

He gives Jensen a hopeful, apologetic smile.

Jensen’s eyebrows go up.

So do Sandy’s.

“Jared! You didn’t – you didn’t _tell_ him?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Jared says, reasonably. “Hey Jensen, you think you’re straight, you’ve got a smoking hot girlfriend – ”

“Who’s an agent for the Republic –”

“…which probably makes her even hotter, I’m some guy you don’t recognize who keeps getting you nearly killed, but by the way, I’m your now-illegal ex-boyfriend?” He shrugs. “It never seemed like the right time.”

“After the sex would have been fine,” Jensen says. Sandy squeals.

“No details!” Jared says. “None!”

“I’ll get them out of him later,” she says sweetly. “I always do.”

“Hey!” Jared protests. “No you don’t! Quit trying to implant false memories!” He pulls back and gives Jensen his best puppy eyes. “She’s lying. You never tell her anything.”

“I’ll tell you what I _do_ want to know,” Sandy says. “What’s the big secret? What’s worth killing for? Apart from Jared, of course.”

She follows their gaze to the windowsill. They stand and come up behind her, as she reaches out her hand and picks up the cube. Its matte black surface is limned with the faintest shimmer of green, pattern of lines just beneath the shell.

“It’s warm,” she murmurs. “What is it?”

“The future,” Jared says. “Green means go.”

 

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

  


**_Epilogue_ **

There’s a knock on their bedroom door.

“You decent?” Mike says, poking his head around before they have a chance to answer. “We’re about to broadcast the instructions out worldwide. Wanna come watch?”

“Give us two minutes,” Jensen grumbles.

“Pants optional!” Mike says, disappearing again.

“Don’t traumatize Sandy!” Jared yells after him.

They join the others in the office a few minutes later. Jensen’s eyes are gritty and he needs coffee, but he’s not going to miss this historic moment. Mike’s typing away at the ComNet connection, eyes gleaming. Misha is running through a series of poses on the newly repaired futon.

Sandy looks at the large canvas on the wall above Misha. “What on earth is that supposed to be?”

“It’s art,” Jared says. “Misha painted it the other day. He says it’s an abstract representation of the intersection between the animal and the divine.”

“Weird,” says Sandy. “I like the blue, but that bit over there looks like an ass print.”

“Very perceptive of you,” Jensen says.

“Who’s got a timer?” Mike says. “The system’s going to come down on this one fast; I’m sending it to some high-level addresses. I figure we have thirty seconds before the mask fails.”

“What?” Sandy says. “That’s ridiculous. Who installed that?”

“Me,” Mike says, “and let me tell you, thirty seconds is pretty impressive against…”

“That’s your problem,” Sandy says, already crawling under the desk. “You do realize you have your _actual_ tech agent in house now, right?”

She unplugs Mike’s blocker, fiddles with it a few seconds, swaps a couple of switches and hooks the cables back up in a slightly different arrangement. “Good to go. Take as long as you want.”

Mike stares for a moment, then folds his hands in front of himself and bows low.

“You’re welcome,” she says. Jensen doesn’t blame her for sounding a bit smug.

“What’s it called?” Misha says.

“What’s what called?”

Misha waves a free hand. “It. The cube. What’s it called?”

They all stare blankly.

“He’s right,” Sandy says. “It needs a good name.”

“This isn’t a marketing campaign,” Jensen says. “It works. Who cares what it’s called?”

“People care,” Misha says. “We’re funny that way.”

“Besides,” Jared says, “we want to sound cool in the history books.”

“We can call it M-Power,” Mike says brightly.

“No you can’t,” says Jared, “I veto that. It’s Jensen’s secret, he gets to name it.”

“Actually, I think that’s a pretty good name,” Jensen says. “Snappy.”

“Huh,” says Jared. “I keep forgetting you’re brain damaged.”

“And you’re dating me,” Jensen retorts.

“I’m not sure staying in bed all day counts as dating,” Mike says. “I think you need to go out somewhere at least once to qualify.”

“We went out,” Jared says. “Two days ago.”

“Beer and grocery runs don’t qualify either,” Mike says. “Okay. Here we go.”

He presses the link.

There’s no good reason for Jensen to hold his breath and watch the screen, as the data scrolls out into the ether. But he does.

He’s a secret agent. He just changed the world. He has no idea what happens next.

That’s pretty fucking cool.

 

  


The trouble with saving the world is that it tends to be not so much a one-time event as a lifelong commitment.

Still. It does come with some perks.

Jared blinks up at the blinding sky. Timing is critical here.

He decides he’s been on his back long enough, and rolls over to get some sun on his shoulder blades. Attention to detail, that’s what makes a perfect tan.

“So, I heard from Jeff,” he says.

“Yeah?” Jensen adjusts his sunglasses. “Why, does he want somebody dead?”

“Probably no deaths. Some well-deserved beatings, maybe.” Jared grins. “But I might get to kill Tom Welling.”

“Bloodthirsty,” Jensen says mildly. “You don’t have to avenge me. I’m fine.”

Jared doesn’t respond to this, because he knows that Jensen is not a damsel who needs rescuing and does not like to be thought of that way, but he also knows that one of these days he _is_ going to kill Tom Welling.

When the opportunity presents itself. He’s in no rush to get off this beach where Jensen is mostly naked next to him, getting more freckled by the minute despite SPF of one-fifty or something.

He props himself up on one elbow. “The Republic’s pretty well stabilized now. With the oil company influence out of the way, the more liberal faction’s got the upper hand for now, and it’s a couple of years before the elections. Jeff figures they’re all set, gonna push through the reforms they’ve been talking about.”

“Maybe,” Jensen says, “but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Anyway, he says they don’t need him, and he wants a new challenge. He’s never liked what’s been happening in Utah. Figures it’s time for a change.”

“Do you?”

“In Utah? Sure,” Jared says.

“I mean, in general,” Jensen says. “You wanna go on doing this stuff?”

Jared doesn’t know how to take that question. He sits up. “Uh. I guess?”

“It’s just…” Jensen sits up too, folding his arms around his knees. “You don’t have to. You’ve been risking yourself a long time. If you’re burned out, or, you know, bored or whatever. We don’t have to.”

Jared frowns. He loves his job, but he doesn’t want to push Jensen into something Jensen’s not keen on. “Dude. Are you saying you’d rather not? Because I get that this is kind of a weird life.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “I just – I don’t really know what I’d do with myself. How to have a ‘normal’ life.”

Jensen’s already shaking his head vigorously. “Hey. No!” He reaches out, grips Jared’s arm. “I _had_ a normal life, and you know what?” He grins. “In retrospect, it was boring as hell. This is _exactly_ what I wanna be doing.”

Jared leans over and hugs him, because that’s exactly what _Jared_ wants to be doing now.

A few minutes later, Jensen says, “So why do you think Tom Welling’s there?”

“He’s a right-wing douchebag who needs a job,” Jared says. “I bet you a blowjob he’s working there, for someone.”

“Giving or receiving?” Jensen inquires.

“Whatever,” Jared says, and they both grin, because really, it’s not like they need an excuse.

“You’re on,” Jensen agrees.

“I could teach you some tricks in that department, too,” Jared says with a straight face.

“Yeah?” says Jensen. “Bet they were all mine to begin with.”

“You’ll never know,” Jared says.

Jensen’s quiet for a minute.

“You don’t care if I never remember?” he says finally.

Jared laughs. “Are you kidding? This way you don’t remember all the dumb shit I pulled when I was young and clueless. It’s like a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

He watches a muscle clench and release in Jensen’s jaw.

“Quit thinking stupid stuff,” he says, leaning over and kissing him.

“You say the sweetest things,” Jensen grumbles. “Jerk.”

“Yeah,” says Jared. “I love you too.”

 

_the end_

[Go check out some more story art!](http://apieceofcake.livejournal.com/397391.html)

**ETA July 2011:** This story now has a prequel! [Black Flag Over Texas](http://electricalgwen.livejournal.com/101945.html) tells the story of how Jensen and Jared first met.

 

Feedback: oxygen to the flame.  



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